Page 48 of Mrs. Rathore

Aryan still slept on the couch.

Every night.

Sometimes, I stared at his empty side of the bed and considered calling him to sleep next to me just as friends. There was enough space. We could be civil. Maybe even… close.

But I never had the courage.

Besides, it was hard to ignore how hot he looked. Honestly, the man looked like he walked out of a magazine. Sculpted body, sharp jawline, messy hair, and those intense eyes that made it hard to breathe.

Any woman would kill to have a real-life hero like him as a husband. And I? I had him, but not by choice.

My eyes caught a photo album peeking out from beneath some folded shirts. Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled it out and flipped it open.

The first photo was of Aryan during his training days, looking almost like a boy nineteen, maybe twenty with dirt on his uniform and pride in his smile. The next showed him with his parents, their hands pinning stars on his shoulders. His mother was teary-eyed, his father beaming. That must’ve been the day he became an officer.

Then came a picture of Aryan with Ira.

She wore a blue satin dress and was holding onto his arm like she belonged there. They looked perfect. Too perfect.

Pain twisted in my chest. I had no right to feel it, but it was there anyway.

I slammed the album shut and shoved it back in its place, my fingers trembling. At least now, I could use crutches. I didn’t have to rely on anyone, not Rhea, not the maids. Rhea had been my guardian angel these past few days. She and Grandma were probably the only two people in this house I’d ever miss.

Because deep down, I knew this marriage wasn’t permanent.

Aryan would eventually marry Ira, and I’d fade from his life like I was never there.

It wasn’t like I wanted to be remembered. I told myself I wouldn’t remember him either, not once I was healed. Once my legs worked again, I’d start training. I'd fill out the application for the next competition. Just the thought made butterflies flutter in my stomach.

I pushed everything aside, put in my earbuds, and played my favorite Kathak piece. The melody filled my head, drowning out the noise of the world. I closed my eyes and danced if only in my imagination.

An hour passed. Then Rhea knocked and called me for dinner.

There were many things I disliked about living here, but the food definitely topped the list. Their personal chef cooked bland, health-conscious dishes that were practically flavorless. No spice. No salt. No chilies. Ugh.

I’d been cooking since I was ten, after mummy fell ill. Since then, I’d never enjoyed anyone else’s food. Papa always said I was a genius in the kitchen though I knew I wasn’t.

At the dining table, I sat across from Mrs. Rathore. She began her dinner with a bowl of salad, chewing delicately with a pinched expression.

I once heard someone say: No matter how much bamboo a panda eats, it still stays fat. She reminded me of a panda.

Not that I was body shaming. She actually looked nice when she wasn’t talking.

“Where is Aryan?” she asked, finally noticing her son’s absence.

“He said he had some important work to finish,” Rhea replied between bites of fried rice.

I noticed Rhea ate more rice than chapatis. I, on the other hand, preferred the latter less chance of gaining weight. Since I couldn't do yoga or dance, I had to control my diet. No sugar. No junk. No soda. Just porridge and soup.

After dinner, Rhea helped me change into pajamas and a T-shirt, a welcome break from the heavy fancy clothes. I curled up in bed, checked the time it was past midnight.

Still no Aryan.

Where was he?

He left in the afternoon. It had been hours. I asked Rhea to call him, but his phone was switched off. I didn’t even have his number.

The unease in my chest grew.

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