Page 89 of Mrs. Rathore

To him, I had hit a jackpot.

A husband like Aryan Rathore wasn’t just desirable; he was a prize. Filthy rich. Devastatingly handsome. An officer with impeccable discipline and a badge that commanded respect. And to top it all, he had been generous to my family. My father saw all this as love. Duty, respect, and good looks were enough for him to define a happy marriage.

But I knew better.

Aryan might have been the perfect son-in-law, but he had never been a husband to me. Not in the way that mattered.

Perhaps he could be a perfect husband to Ira. The thought hit like a gut punch.

I sighed and reached for my phone, scrolling mindlessly through notifications. A message from Prashant blinked on the screen, missed calls, and a few texts. I hadn’t replied to any of them. I had told him I was busy with family, and in a way, I was. Butmostly, I was just tired of lying. Tired of pretending my marriage was something it wasn’t.

Prashant cared. I knew that. But every time he mentioned Aryan with even a hint of curiosity, I felt this heavy weight of guilt settle on my chest. So I slowly stopped talking to him. The fewer lies I had to tell, the better.

Hours passed in silence. I wasn’t exactly locked in, but it felt like I was. The sound of muffled laughter and distant music seeped through the closed door, reminding me I wasn’t part of the celebration happening just outside.

It was nearly half past eight. My throat was dry, and my stomach grumbled. Harish hadn’t come by, and I hated to ring for him like I was someone above him. I never thought of the staff here as servants. To me, they were people, just like me. They were kind, warm, and often more genuine than the rest of the house. One evening, I even shared dinner with Harish and the chef in the kitchen. They were hesitant at first, uncomfortable even, but once the ice broke, we laughed like old friends.

Tonight, though, I was alone.

I quietly cracked open the door and peeked outside. My breath caught.

The house looked unrecognizable. The strings of warm fairy lights draped across the walls, fresh flower arrangements adorned every table, and a soft golden glow danced across the marbled floors. The scent of roses and something sweet, maybe vanilla or jasmine floated through the air. Classical instrumental music played softly in the background, blending with the sound of polite chatter and clinking glasses.

So much for a small gathering, I thought bitterly. This was nothing less than a lavish party.

I hesitated for a second, then stepped out cautiously. I just needed a glass of water. Maybe something light to eat. I could sneak into the kitchen and be back in my room before anyone even noticed.

Each step I took echoed faintly against the floor, my crutches clicking softly. I moved carefully, keeping to the shadows as my eyes were low.

But as I reached the archway leading to the main living area, I froze. My heart stopped.

There, in the corner of the living room, framed under the golden light, sat Aryan. And beside him was Ira.

She looked… radiant. Dressed in a midnight blue gown that shimmered every time she moved, her curled hair falling in soft waves over her shoulder. A red tint on her lips, bruises still visible on her face, and a plaster covering her right hand. Yet even injured, she looked like she belonged. Strong. Poised. Perfect. And most importantly she was with him.

Aryan sat close, his posture relaxed, his face calm. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something else, a comfort. A quiet ease in the way he leaned toward her. His head tilted slightly as if listening intently, and in that moment, it was as if the rest of the world didn’t exist for him.

Ira said something and gently placed a hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away.

My stomach dropped. I clutched the crutch tighter. A strange nausea churned inside me, as though my body instinctively recognized the truth before my heart could catch up.

So this was why I wasn’t supposed to leave my room.

It wasn’t about the questions. It wasn’t about pity.

It was so they could be together. Freely. Without guilt. Without me ruining the picture.

I glanced around. Everyone looked stunning, dressed in silks, sequins, and designer suits. The guests laughed, sipped wine, and carried on conversations I’d never be invited into. I didn’t belong here. I never had.

I looked back one last time at Aryan and Ira. And turned around.

My heart thudded so violently in my chest, I was sure someone would hear it. If I stood there a moment longer, my pain would start playing its rhythm and people would begin dancing to it.

Reality had a cruel way of reminding you where you stood.

I had dared to dream again. I had smiled at my phone like a teenager. I had imagined myself dancing, laughing, even healing.

But this was the truth.