Page 62 of Mrs. Rathore

Had Aryan carried me in here… like this?

Heat rushed to my face. I dared not look around, afraid of what I might confirm. Slowly, I peeked under the blanket, my eyes tracing the line of my limbs. Just undergarments. Nothing else. A spike of panic crawled over my skin. My body tensed, cold despite the warmth of the room.

Did he see me like this?

And why, of all things, was that thought invading my mind? Why did I care if Aryan had seen me half-naked? Why did my heart twist at the idea that he might have looked at me and touched me not with affection, but obligation?

I checked my arms and legs; they were perfectly smooth. Of course, they were. I had always been meticulous about grooming, a silent discipline drilled into me from my years as a dancer. But again, why did it matter? Why was I preoccupied with whether or not I looked presentable to him?

Aryan would never find me attractive. Not when Ira existed.

The thought pierced deeper than I expected. Ira, with her effortless beauty, elegant posture, and easy confidence, was the kind of woman people noticed when she walked into a room. She was the woman men admired and women envied.

She was everything I wasn’t.

I had never been the type to compare myself to other women—at least, not really. I had always been content with who I was: quiet, reserved, and grounded. But when it came to Ira… comparison felt inevitable. She radiated a charm I could never match, no matter how hard I tried. She once had Aryan’s admiration; maybe she still did.

I clenched my jaw and shoved the thoughts aside. I didn’t want to think about Ira. And I didn’t want to think about Aryan’s preferences. His opinion of me shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Once my heartbeat slowed and the trembling dulled, I carefully slid off the bed. Pain shot through my knees the moment my feet touched the ground. I winced, instinctively reaching to steady myself on the nightstand. My right leg ached in protest; the muscles were tense and unforgiving. I can still remember the moment I fell. One second, I was enjoying the water trickling over my skin, and the next, I was curled on the cold tiles, sharp agony shooting up my leg.

It had been over a month since the accident, yet my knee still refused to function properly. I needed to talk to my doctor again. I needed answers. How much longer until I could move freely?How much longer until I could dance again? The thought of the stage, the rhythm, the feel of the floor beneath my feet haunted me. I missed it so much that it physically hurt.

Physical therapy had done wonders, but my recovery still felt incomplete. My body remained stubborn, and my right knee still refused to cooperate. I wasn’t ready to give up, but some days, hope slipped through my fingers like grains of sand.

Pushing through the discomfort, I got dressed slowly, slipping into a soft cotton saree the color of twilight, blue with silver accents. I brushed my damp hair back and parted it carefully before applying a thin streak of vermilion in the middle—a symbol and a reminder. I reached for the matching bangles and earrings, gifts from Rhea, who had recently filled my jewelry box with more than I could ever need. Designer brands, precious metals, things I never imagined myself wearing. Yet here I was, draping myself in the identity of a Rathore.

I glanced at the platinum ring on my finger, a gift from Mrs. Rathore. A single diamond glitter at its center, elegant and expensive. I didn’t know what it cost, but it felt like too much.

According to her, I wore too little jewelry. So now I adorned myself with gold, diamonds, and platinum-like heavy armor. Ornate, sparkling armor that quietly suffocated me. Even the anklets hurt, each step resulting in tiny pinpricks of pain. But I wore them anyway as if dressing myself properly would somehow make everything right.

Once ready, I stepped into the hallway, moving slowly with the help of my crutches. The scent of breakfast drifted from the dining room. As I approached, I heard Aryan’s voice, low andcomposed as he spoke on the phone. The moment I walked in, he looked up and paused.

Our eyes met.

A strange sensation surged through me, sharp and fleeting. His gaze lingered, but I tore mine away before it could burn me. I moved to sit beside him, keeping my eyes trained on the table, ignoring the heat that prickled my face.

Aryan ended the call, setting his phone down with a muted thud. He poured himself a glass of orange juice without a word.

Then came Grandma’s voice, cutting through the silence with cheerful oblivion.

“So… when are you two going on your honeymoon?”

Aryan choked mid-sip, nearly spilling juice down his shirt. I coughed in surprise, quickly grabbing a napkin and reaching across to dab the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t thank me either.

“Honeymoon?” Aryan rasped, his voice husky. “Who gave you the concept of a honeymoon, Grandma?”

Grandma looked affronted, her eyes wide with mock indignation. “Who gave me? Excuse me, I know perfectly well what a honeymoon is! Your grandfather and I went to Kerala—God’s own country. It was magical. He took me on a houseboat. We spent lazy afternoons basking in the sun on the beach and evenings watching the sunset turn the sky to fire. Those were the most romantic days of my life.” She glanced between Aryan andme, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly, my love story is better than yours, you two.”

I forced a smile, the words sinking into the silence between Aryan and me.

“I don’t have time for a honeymoon,” Aryan said abruptly. His voice was clipped and cold. “And Avni’s legs aren’t exactly in condition for cross-country travel.”

There it was: resentment, sharp and unfiltered, even in front of his grandmother.

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