Page 52 of Mrs. Rathore

And now… now I was waiting for Aryan.

The thought of him sent a fresh wave of dread coursing through me.

What would he do when he found out about the text? What would become of me when he discovered the truth? Would he scream? Hit me? Kill me? Would he destroy me in ways I couldn’t even imagine?

God… what if he took revenge not on me, but on my family?

A cold shiver rolled down my spine as I imagined it. What if he stopped funding my mother’s treatment? The hospital bills were more than we could ever afford. What if he pulled my brother’s tuition? All of Aryan’s promises, all his support, could vanish in an instant. And we would be left with nothing. There was no safety net. No second chances.

No mercy.

“No,” I whispered to myself. “I won’t let him hurt them. He can hate me. He can punish me. But not them.”

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Half past twelve in the afternoon. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I last saw Aryan. Since that confrontation in the theatre room, he had vanished with no texts, no calls, and no threats.

The silence was worse than screaming.

And then I heard them. His footsteps.

Heavy. Purposeful. Filled with rage.

My breath caught in my throat.

I knew it was him. Every step closer was like the ticking of a bomb counting down. My heart pounded against my ribcage, panic clawing at my insides. And then...

BANG.

The door slammed open so hard it hit the wall with a deafening crack. I jolted, my entire body going rigid as he stood there, framed in the doorway like a harbinger of wrath. His eyes locked on mine, burning not with anger, but something colder, darker.

Disgust.

His jaw clenched, muscles in his neck twitching. His fists were balled at his sides, and his entire body was trembling with fury. I had seen Aryan angry before but this? This wasn’t anger.

This was hatred.

And I knew, without a doubt, that he had read the messages.

He stepped into the room, shutting the door with a forceful slam behind him. The walls seemed to shrink, the air tightening around me as if the house itself was bracing for what was to come.

I wanted to disappear.

I wanted to run, to hide but my legs refused to move. I stilled in my wheelchair.

His eyes bore into mine as he spoke, his voice low, deadly. “Did you send a message to Ira?”

The words were soft, too soft. And somehow, that terrified me more than if he had shouted.

I swallowed, trying to find the strength to respond. My throat was dry, and when I nodded, I felt shame crushing my shoulders.

“I didn’t know it would...”

But I never got to finish.

He was on me in a heartbeat.

His hand shot out, and suddenly his fingers were around my throat, squeezing, choking. I gasped, my lungs screaming for air as my back hit the chair. My hands trembled at my sides. I didn’t even try to fight him. I just stared into those blazing, vengeful eyes.

It was Aryan… and yet, it wasn’t. This was a man broken, a man consumed by pain. The love of his life had almost died, and he blamed me.