Page 22 of Mrs. Rathore

I jolted when the door slammed open, the sharp crack of wood against the wall echoing through the room like a gunshot. My eyes snapped toward the entrance, and there he was. Aryan Rathore, my husband, standing on the threshold with a stone-carved expression and rage simmering beneath his cold, unreadable eyes.

Without a word, he stepped aside, allowing another man to enter, his arms weighed down with an overwhelming number of gift boxes, each wrapped perfectly, some gleaming with gold foil, others tied with expensive silk ribbons.

“Where to put them, Sir?” the man asked hesitantly.

“On the bed,” Aryan barked. His voice was devoid of warmth, clipped and commanding.

The man nodded, carefully stacking the boxes on the mattress and on my side, I noticed. Then, as quickly as he had come, he left.

The moment the door clicked shut again, Aryan turned, and without warning, he slammed it behind him with such force that the walls seemed to tremble. I flinched involuntarily, my hands gripping the arms of the wheelchair.

He turned to face me then, a cruel smirk slowly tugging at his lips. The kind of smile that chilled your blood and made your skin prickle with unease.

“I thought you’d fallen asleep,” he drawled, his eyes trailing up and down my body in a way that made me recoil. “But here you are, waiting for me?”

That look in his eyes, it wasn’t desire. It wasn’t even hatred. It was something far worse. Contempt. Cold, sharp, bone-deep contempt. And yet, I should’ve been the one disgusted. He was the one who had left with his girlfriend on our wedding day. He was the one who made a mockery of this union.

But why the hell was I even bothered?

“It’s our wedding night, right?” he murmured, taking slow, deliberate steps toward me.

Those words struck my heart like a bolt of lightning. My breath caught painfully in my throat. No. This wasn’t part of the plan. I hadn’t come here to be touched by him. I had come here to punish, to break, to make him feel everything he once made me feel.

“The doctor strictly instructed that I should not...can’t...engage in anything… physical,” I stammered, grasping at logic, at rules, at anything that would save me from the storm I saw brewing in his eyes.

But he scoffed. “Oh, come on. Don’t try to fool me, Avni Rathore,” he spat, his voice sharper than glass.

He moved closer, his body towering over me as I instinctively rolled the wheelchair back. But there was nowhere left to go. The wall was at my back now.

He wasn’t drunk. No. He looked clear-eyed, dangerously calm. His fury wasn’t slurred or stumbling but it was precise, like a scalpel.

“Listen, Aryan, we can’t... you can’t... I just...” I fumbled, unable to form coherent words, my tongue twisting around fear.

“Then why the fuck did you marry me?” he exploded.

His voice thundered through the room, paralyzing me. I froze in place. My breath, my heartbeat—everything stopped. He loomed over me, a god of fury, his face carved in pure rage. I didn’t blink. I didn’t move. One wrong gesture and I was certain he’d erupt.

Then suddenly, his voice dropped to calm, almost cold. “Oh wait... I know exactly why you married me.”

He walked over to the bed and ripped open one of the neatly wrapped boxes. A necklace shimmered inside. Diamonds glinting under the soft yellow light.

“Did you want this?” he sneered, dragging the necklace out of the box like it was a noose. He strode back to me, crouched, and clasped it around my neck with forceful fingers.

It wasn’t tight, but it felt suffocating.

He opened another gift—gold bangles this time, polished and delicate. But the moment he saw them, his eyes darkened. He grabbed my wrist with bruising force and began shoving the bangles on, one by one, ignoring how tight they were. I clenched my teeth against the pain, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

A sharp sting tore through me. A bangle bit into my skin and blood welled up, a thin line tracing down my wrist. I saw it. He saw it. His jaw ticked.

He yanked the bangle off violently and hurled it across the room. It landed somewhere on the marble floor with a clatter, spinning wildly before falling silent.

I stared at him, and then wiped the blood with the edge of my saree slowly, and mockingly. “You want money, right?” he growled.

Before I could respond, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills, hurling them at my face. I gasped as they struck me, but I didn’t look away. He tossed more. One after another. The notes rained over me like filth.

“Fuck you!” he roared, his teeth clenched.

He lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back until I was forced to look into his burning eyes. His face was inches from mine—our noses nearly touching. I could smell the faint traces of alcohol on his breath, the sharp sting of his aftershave, the heat of his fury.