Page 99 of Mrs. Rathore

I looked up.

There she stood, confident and breathtaking in a fitted tank top and skinny jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a stylish braid, her lips shimmering with a light gloss. She looked like a model from a fashion magazine, all lean elegance and sharp features. If I didn’t know her background, I’d have assumed she was a runway star, not an army officer. She didn’t just walk into the room but she owned it.

“Sounds good…” she repeated, her tone unreadable as she settled onto the sofa opposite mine. An envelope was clasped in her hand.

“Uh…” I frowned in confusion.

“Avni Rathore sounds good,” she clarified, her face impassive.

“Yeah,” I forced a smile. It was an awkward, and unconvincing one. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, then her eyes flicked to my legs. “Still recovering?”

“Yeah.” I caught myself staring at her arm, the one I remembered being in a cast.

“It’s better now. Not perfect. I’m still on medication.” She gestured toward her arm and leg. “But the plaster’s gone. I can walk fine now.”

“That’s great,” I said genuinely.

“That’s because I’m not weak like you,” she added bluntly. “It’s been over two months since the accident. You’re still hobbling.”

I clenched my jaw but said nothing.

“That’s because Aryan was drunk and rammed me pretty hard,” I replied quietly.

“He saved your life,” she scoffed. “Otherwise, no one would have married you.”

My fingers curled into fists under the coffee table. But I didn’t retaliate. I didn’t want a fight. She had already been through too much.

“I don’t want to hate you,” she said, meeting my eyes. Her tone remained cold, but her honesty startled me. “But I can’t help it. I do. Still, I’m moving on.” She placed the envelope in front of me. “This is a letter from Aryan. He’s been writing to me since he’s stationed, like he always does. I haven’t read it, and I won’t. It’s inappropriate. He has a wife now. Maybe you deserve to know how he’s doing.”

“Ira, he really cares about you,” I blurted. “Please don’t blame him. I’ve heard how he speaks about you…”

“Listen, Avni,” she cut in, her voice steely. “I don’t know what you want, but I see your intentions clearly. I thought there was something still left between us. But the texts he sent shattered that illusion. I’m proud that I didn’t beg, I didn’t cry. If he wants to erase me and move on, I’ll respect that even if it destroys me. He took his step. I’m taking mine.”

She stood.

“I’m not abandoning him,” she said, “but he abandoned me-for a cheap dancer.”

“Ira, it wasn’t his fault!” My eyes burned. “You were always his priority.”

“Now you’ve become his priority,” she snapped.

“Ira, listen, that text was...”

“I’m getting late.” She turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the floor like a farewell drumbeat. I tried to follow, but my crutches slowed me down. She disappeared before I could catch her. She had walked away from me like I was some sort of disease in her life.

I stood there, holding back tears. I thought things between them were mending. But they had fallen apart beyond repair.

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Chapter 38

AVNI

I walked back to the table where Ira had left the envelope. It sat there like it didn’t carry the weight of a thousand unsaid words. I stared at it for a while, heart knocking softly against my ribs, guilt curling in the pit of my stomach. Aryan had poured his heart into these letters, writing to someone he once loved, maybe still did, in the hope of hearing something back. But instead of replying, Ira had left his letter behind… carelessly, almost cruelly. She hadn’t even flinched.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I knew I was to blame. Maybe Ira wouldn’t have reacted this way if I hadn’t been around. Maybe my presence alone reminded her too much of things she didn’t want to feel anymore.

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