[11] JEOULUSY
The Rolls-Royce slid back into the haveli courtyard, tyres crunching softly on gravel.
Abhiraj stepped out, the morning sun glinting off his black suit, sharp and tailored like a blade.
He moved through the haveli with purpose, boots silent on the marble, up the grand staircase, past the room where her scent still lingered.
The office door beside their bedroom opened with a low creak.
He settled into the leather chair, laptop glowing to life, screens blooming with numbers—London’s stock exchange, Mumbai’s real estate, village land deeds.
His fingers danced across the keys, signing off on contracts, balancing foreign accounts, drafting Rajveer’s retirement as sarpanch, the seal soon to be his.
But one name gnawed at him.
Mr. Khanna.
The clock ticked to 1:00 p.m.
He glanced up, jaw tight.
Time to move.
The drawer slid open.
His hand closed around the matte-black Glock, cold, heavy.
He tucked it into the back of his jeans, steel kissing skin, then stood.
Down the stairs, he paused at the veranda.
Dadi and Minakshi swayed on the hichka, chai cups clinking, laughter soft.
He didn’t interrupt, just slipped past, a shadow in black.
The car roared to life.
Dust trailed behind him as he sped toward the village.
Shekhawat Inter College loomed ahead, red-brick walls baking under the afternoon sun. He parked, strode through the gate, past curious students whispering about the Rolls-Royce. The corridor to the principal’s office was cool, chalk-dust in the air.
Mrs. Sharma stood as he entered, eyes wide with respect.
“Thakur sahab—”
He took the chair, legs crossed.
She sat, hands folding nervously.
“Chai?”
“Nahi.”
He slid a check across the desk, ink bold, amount heavy.
“Hisab dijiye.”
Files opened.
Construction costs.
Teacher salaries.
Student fees.
Every rupee accounted for, clean as a whistle.
He nodded, satisfied.
“Chaliye, school dikhaati hoon.”
They walked the corridor, shoes echoing.
Classrooms buzzed—children reciting tables, teachers scribbling formulas.
Karishma stood in a 9th-grade room, pointer tapping a geometry diagram, voice clear, confident.
No Amisha.
He stopped, voice low.
“By the way… Mr. Khanna kaun hai?”
Mrs. Sharma blinked, caught off guard.
“Kindergarten ka principal.”
A pause.
His eyes narrowed, then softened.
“Mrs. Shekhawat kahan hain abhi?”
Her face shifted—confusion, then realization.
Husband.
“Unka koi period nahi hai abhi. Kindergarten mein hongi—bachchon ke saath khel rahi hongi.
Permission nahi dete hum, lekin unhone itna request kiya… maine allow kar diya.”
His voice turned to steel, quiet but unyielding.
“Agli baar unko aapse zyada request na karni pade. Uska dhyan rakhna.”
Mrs. Sharma nodded, quick, eager.
“Yes, sir. Bilkul. Woh jaise chahein, waise ja sakti hain.”
He tilted his head toward the wing.
“Kindergarden kahan hai?”
She pointed left, down a sunlit corridor.
“Aap ab jaaiye. Main akela jaunga.”
She retreated to her office, door clicking shut.
He walked,
gun heavy at his back,
Mr. Khanna a dull echo,
but Amisha—
her laughter, her satin, her warmth—
louder,
pulling him forward.
The kindergarten corridor rang with shrieks of delight, tiny voices bouncing off pastel walls painted with cartoon elephants.
Abhiraj’s stride slowed, boots silent on the linoleum.
A helpless smile tugged at his lips—soft, unguarded—because beneath the chaos, her laugh threaded through like warm honey, pulling at his chest.
He reached the open doorway.
Outside the low gate stood Vishal Khanna—tall, lean, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loosened, eyes fixed inside with a hunger that made Abhiraj’s blood roar.
Old rival.
Mr. Khanna.
The name tasted like rust.
Abhiraj’s smile died.
Inside, Amisha sat cross-legged on the alphabet mat,
brown satin saree shimmering under fluorescent lights,
a constellation of children orbiting her.
One tugged her pallu,
another climbed her back like a monkey,
a third nestled in her lap,
all giggling,
all hers.
A small hand yanked the saree aside.
Her waist—
bare,
creamy,
curved like a secret—
glowed,
inviting touch.
Vishal stared.
At her waist. At his wife.
Abhiraj’s pulse thundered.
Fingers curled into fists inside his pockets, knuckles white.
Vishal sensed him,
turned.
Eyes widened,
then narrowed to slits.
“Tum? Abhiraj? Yahan kya kar raha hai?”
Abhiraj stepped in,
slow,
predatory,
heat radiating.
“Meri biwi ke liye aaya hoon.”
Vishal’s jaw flexed,
voice tight,
jealousy dripping.
“Woh yahan nahi hai.”
Abhiraj’s head tilted,
mocking,
dangerous.
“Woh kaun hai phir?”
Vishal swallowed,
the name poison.
“Amisha—”
Abhiraj’s brow arched,
lethal.
“Amisha?”
Vishal choked it out.
“Mrs. Shekhawat.”
Abhiraj closed the gap,
towering,
voice silk over steel,
breath brushing Vishal’s ear.
“Yaad rakhna, woh kiski biwi hai.
Apni aankhon ko control mein rakhna.”
Vishal’s eyes flashed,
defiant,
burning.
“Aur agar nahi rakha toh?”
Abhiraj leaned closer,
gun heavy at his back,
voice a dark whisper.
“Dusri baar in aankhon mein chhed honge.
Aur un chhedon mein goliyan.”
Vishal’s fists clenched,
rage trembling.
Amisha looked up then,
smile blooming like dawn,
grey eyes sparkling.
“Arre, aap dono jaante ho ek dusre ko?”
The tension shattered—
soft,
warm,
her.
Vishal forced a grin,
strained,
bitter.
“Nahi, abhi dekha.”
She stood,
saree rustling like a lover’s sigh,
children clinging like vines.
“Main milwa deti hoon.
Mr. Khanna, yeh mere pati hain.
Aur yeh Mr. Khanna—kindergarten ke principal.”
Abhiraj’s hand slid to her waist,
fingers splaying wide,
heat searing through satin,
pulling her flush against his side,
claiming,
possessive,
his thumb brushing the bare skin above her kamarband.
Amisha stiffened—
shock,
then heat flooding her cheeks,
her breath catching at the intimacy.
Vishal’s face twisted,
jealousy raw,
eyes darting to Abhiraj’s hand.
Abhiraj’s voice was calm,
final,
laced with satisfaction.
“Mrs. Shekhawat, main aata hoon.”
He walked out.
Door shut.
Silence pulsed.
Amisha stared at Abhiraj—
anger in his hazel eyes,
dark satisfaction in his smirk,
his hand still burning on her waist.
She swatted it,
whisper sharp.
Remove.
He didn’t.
Fingers dragged lower,
slow,
deliberate,
brushing her navel,
pressing into the soft swell of her tummy,
a silent promise.
She gasped,
heat pooling,
slapped his hand away,
yanked her pallu into place,
breath shaky.
“Chalo, ghar chalen.”
“Par chhutti nahi hui.”
“Ho gayi tumhari chhutti.”
“Main principal ko bata doon?”
“Koi zarurat nahi. Main bata dunga.”
She nodded,
pulse racing.
They turned.
The children had retreated—
wide-eyed,
huddled in corners,
tiny fingers clutching crayons like lifelines,
whispers of “Monster uncle!”
Abhiraj stood behind her,
black suit,
towering,
shadow long,
demonic,
a dark king.
Amisha glanced up,
voice soft,
teasing.
“Thoda haso. Bacche darr rahe hain.”
He smirked—
wider,
darker,
teeth flashing,
eyes glinting with mischief.
One child burst into tears.
“Mummy!”
Amisha laughed,
scooped him up,
his small face buried in her chest.
He peeked at Abhiraj,
wailed louder,
hid again,
sobbing into satin.
Another child whimpered.
A third dropped his toy,
scooting back.
Amisha chuckled,
rocked the crying boy,
voice soothing.
“Shh… abhi bhi darr lag raha hai?”
Finally calm,
she set him down,
his tiny hands clinging to her saree.
They walked out—
her hand in his,
fingers laced,
saree swaying against his thigh,
children peeking from behind desks,
his shadow long,
protective,
terrifying,
but hers.