48
SHIVANI
Frustration claws at me as I search for the perfect dress. But it isn't that simple, and it's all because of Rudraksh.
We’re getting ready for a business party. Rudra told me about it this morning—this morning—and I still can’t believe him. Who drops something like that hours before an event? I groaned, complained, and threw a pillow at his face, and he just smiled like the smug man he is.
"I swear, sometimes I think you enjoy stressing me out," I mutter, flipping through hangers in the closet.
From behind me, I hear his voice, lazy and amused. "I like the way you look when you're flustered. Hair all messy, cheeks flushed, that cute little pout—drives me insane."
I turn to glare at him. “Rudra, this is a business party, not your personal runway show.”
He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes dragging slowly over my body with an infuriating amount of heat. “And yet, you still manage to look like sin even in that faded t-shirt.”
My eyes narrow, and I huff aloud. “If I show up in pajamas, it’s your fault.”
A smirk forms on his face, and a mischievousness glints in his eyes. “Mmm, that would be quite the headline—Mrs. Malhotra stuns in nightwear. You’d still be the most beautiful woman there.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart flutters. He’s impossible. Absolutely impossible.
"You're not helping."
"I am helping," he says, pushing off the wall and walking toward me. He brushes my hair off my shoulder, his fingers grazing my neck as a shiver rolls down my body.
“Wear something that makes you feel like the goddess you are. And maybe,” his lips hover by my ear, “something that’ll drive me insane all night.” He hums, "But I think whatever you wear will drive me insane." The earlier smirk lingers, not wanting to drop off.
“You’re such a menace,” I mutter, cheeks heating.
“And you love it.” He chuckles, stepping back just as I swat at him.
His laughter echoes down the hall as I kick him out of the room, locking the closet door behind him. I need a minute to think. To breathe. To not let his words turn me into a flustered mess.
After what feels like an hour—and way too many outfit rejections—I finally settle on the dress.
A black gown that hugs every curve without being over the top.
I am getting more comfortable in my own skin, and I have to give most of the credit to my husband for always making me feel gorgeous.
The dress is elegant. Classic. And paired with a sheer white cape that drapes down my shoulders like moonlight.
I feel regal. I feel…me. I bought this dress for our anniversary, which is six months later.
I just loved it too much, so I bought it anyway.
My heels click softly against the floor as I walk out. I spot him on the couch, scrolling through his phone. When he looks up, he freezes. His eyes roam slowly, reverently. “You look breathtakingly beautiful,” he whispers, voice low, full of awe.
I shift under his gaze, a little shy. “Too much?”
He gets up and walks over, taking his time, until he’s standing right in front of me. “You look... you look like art.”
My heart skips, and I swat his arm, blushing. “Don’t do that,” I whisper. “You’ll make me melt.”
A grin forms on his face. “Then let me catch you.”
I laugh, flustered, and he pulls me into his arms. The warmth of his body against mine is comforting.
"You’ll make heads turn at the party," he murmurs, then his tone darkens slightly. “You look too good.” He pulls me closer if that's even possible, and I stumble into him, hands landing on his chest.
“Should I change?” I whisper, almost teasing.
“I will never stop you from wearing any dress, baby,” he tells me, brushing his lips over mine, his voice coming out firm. “It’s not your fault you’re so beautiful. But I am going to beat up every asshole who looks at you the wrong way.”
I bite back a smile, my heart swelling. He’s ridiculous, and I know he means every word. “Don’t worry,” I whisper back. “They can look, but only you get to touch.”
His eyes glint, and he lets out a soft laugh, tugging me in again.
“Let’s go,” I mutter, holding out my hand.
He takes it without hesitation, kissing the top of my head like it's second nature.
He senses my nervousness—he always does.
His thumb rubs soft circles on the back of my hand as we walk toward the car.
I lean into his side, grateful for the calm he brings.
“There will be media, right?” I ask, voice barely audible.
“Yes,” he informs gently. “But I’ve arranged a back entrance for us.”
I look up at him, overwhelmed by love. He is always thinking of protecting me. Always thinking of me, of my comfort. I peck his cheek, then gasp as he pecks my lips. “You’ll get lipstick on your face.”
“So what?” He grins, “It’s yours.”
The rest of the drive passes in comforting silence. His hand never leaves mine. When we reach the venue, the driver opens the door, and Rudra helps me out like we’re stepping onto a red carpet. The music inside is soft, the lighting dimmed, and already I can feel eyes on us.
I tighten my grip on his arm, my nerves creeping back as my eyes roam around the crowd.
“We’ll have to meet a few people. Is that okay, baby?” He asks softly, comfort lacing his tone.
I nod, more for myself than for him. “You’ll be with me,” I say, and that’s all I need to feel brave.
I straighten my spine as I notice a man in his fifties approaching us with a bright smile. “Mr. Malhotra! Thank you for joining us today.”
“Congratulations on fifty years of your company, Mr. Kapoor,” Rudra replies, shaking his hand.
Mr. Kapoor’s gaze shifts to me as he smiles at me with a small nod. “Ah! So the rumors are true.” He chuckles. “You have a beautiful wife.”
Rudra tenses beside me, and I squeeze his arm in reassurance.
“Yes, this is Shivani. My wife.” Rudra introduces us with his fake smile, and I shake my head in acknowledgement.
“Enjoy the night,” Mr. Kapoor says, raising his glass before walking away, leaving us alone.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I mutter, trying to lighten the mood, as I turn to him.
Rudra laughs, leaning down and kissing my cheek.
“Yeah, it wasn't. But that doesn’t matter.” He whispers near my ear, nibbling on it.
“Rudra.” I chastise, as I pull away from him, a small laugh escaping from my mouth.
“You look irresistible, baby,” he whispers, his voice like velvet. “I want to take you right here.”
His hand slides down, cupping my ass with a light squeeze. I gasp, scandalized but maybe, maybe a little thrilled too.
“Rudra,” I hiss, half mortified, half exhilarated.
“Relax, baby,” he says, brushing his lips against my neck. “I won’t do anything… yet.”
I can feel my body responding, heat curling low in my belly. His hand on my waist, the slow circles he draws on my hip—they’re setting me on fire. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Mr. Malhotra!” Someone calls him from behind, but he doesn’t move his hand. I flush, struggling to stay composed.
"How are you?" The man now in front of us asks.
“Fine,” he answers the greeting and shakes hands with the man.
“I need to use the washroom,” I blurt out, unable to even look at the man in front of me.
I step away before I combust on the ballroom floor.
Rudra raises an amused brow, but I don’t give him a chance to speak.
I head toward the hallway, grateful to escape the crowd.
But I don’t go to the restroom. I lean against the wall, trying to collect myself.
My heart is still racing, my skin still tingling.
God, that man. He knows exactly how to undo me with just a look. I wait a minute, expecting him to follow. I’m half-smiling, ready to tease him when he arrives. When I hear footsteps, I hide behind a pillar, prepared to jump out.
“Boo!” I shout. But my grin wipes off my face as I stare at the man.
It’s not Rudra. It's a man in his sixties standing there, smiling in a way that twists my stomach.
“Remember me, sweetheart?” My blood runs cold. I know that voice. It is a little wobbly, but I can never forget this voice. Or this man. I know him. Panic sets in as I try to back away, but he grabs my arm. His fingers are tightening around my arm.
“Let go of me!” I try to shake him off, but he’s strong.
He laughs, low and menacing. “Your father sent me to remind you what a slut you are.” His words slice through me like glass.
“Will your husband still want you when he finds out how you used to let men like me touch you?”
Tears stream down my face as I fight, my voice breaking. “No. Please… stop.” His hand roams, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. Disgust crawls on my arms as I wriggle in his grip.
I hear footsteps. Someone calls my name, and I shout as loud as I can, "Rudraksh!"
The man lets go instantly. “This isn’t over,” he hisses and disappears into the shadows.
My knees buckle, and I slide to the ground, heart pounding, chest tight. I can’t breathe. Everything is spinning. I feel like I’m drowning in fear and shame and panic. Voices reach my ears, but they sound distant and muffled. I try to focus, but my vision blurs. Everything around me slowly fades.
Then I hear his voice. My husband. “Shivani!” His voice echoes, heavy and blurry. But I can’t respond to it as black dots appear in my vision.
I let the darkness engulf me, knowing he’s here. That I’m safe in his arms.