Page 31 of Mrs. Rathore

She was obsessed with my husband.

I looked at Aryan. His jaw was tight, his eyes cold. Had Ira already confronted him? She must have asked him.

Why were you carrying her?

Why did you take her to your room?

What’s going on between you two?

I almost smirked. As Aryan tried to inch away from me, I leaned in and closed the distance, giving him a slow, teasing wink before pulling him closer. I pressed tightly against him, feeling the firmness of his muscular thighs. Why did he have to be so perfect in every way?

Ira’s face turned red. Her arms stiffened at her sides, hands curling into fists. I could practically feel the flames of jealousy radiating off her.

Hurting Ira meant she would strike back by hurting my arrogant husband. They would clash, hurling cruel words like weapons, until the silence between them grew too wide to cross. I’d heardonce that the one who loves you the most is also the one who leaves the deepest scars.

The priest asked everyone to rise for the aarti. I tried, but the pain shot through my legs and I stumbled. Aryan’s one strong arm immediately wrapped around me, catching me before I could fall. I clutched him, breathless, grateful for the support even if it came from someone I hated.

Rhea quickly helped me back into my chair. “Don’t push yourself,” she whispered, pressing a glass of water into my hand. “Just relax. Let them handle the pooja.”

I nodded weakly, lifting the glass to my lips but paused. Ira had stepped forward, sliding into my place beside Aryan. She began the aarti with him, her hand moving gracefully as the flame circled in front of the idols.

Aryan turned to her and smiled.

He smiled.

Wow! I was supposed to make her jealous but...

I felt a knot twist in my chest. Without a word, I wheeled myself away from the gathering and into my room. The second I was alone, I grabbed my painkillers and downed them with the entire glass of water.

Then I looked down at my legs.

Once, I used to love these legs the way they moved to every beat of kathak, the strength, the grace. Now, just the sight of them filled me with bitterness. Broken. Weak. Pathetic.

When will I dance again?

It felt like someone had ripped the oxygen mask off my face and left me gasping for life. Without dance, I wasn’t just incomplete but I was drowning.

I opened Instagram, logging in after two weeks. My screen lit up with a flood of messages, notifications, and comments. Ten thousand new followers since my last competition post. Big institutes had reached out to offer me teaching positions. Brands. Old friends. I scrolled through it all, numb.

Then I played one of my reels.

Ta Thai Thai Tat | Aa Thai Thai Tat | Ta Thai Thai Tat | Aa Thai Thai Tat...

The rhythmic beats echoed through the room, sharp and precise like tiny knives slicing through my chest. I shut my phone off abruptly and threw it on the bed, my heart twisting painfully.

I wanted to delete the app. It was just a cruel reminder of who I used to be… and who I might never be again.

The doctor’s words haunted me.

You’ll walk again. You might even jog.

But dance?

Not like before. Not with that footwork. Not with those spins.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them away.

I wanted to scream at Aryan.