Adultery Between Nabila and Ranjeet

[monikapu32]

Very nice update 
Story is going very good, interesting.
Waiting for your next update 
Please update soon

[monikapu32]

Nice update 
You are going nicely with the story 
Thanks for nice update 
Waiting for next update

[Vik88]

Outstanding and outclass update

[Kartik69]

Wonderful and absolutely fascinating update.

[hfmwife]

Interesting and incredibly exciting writing ✍️

[siva05]

Nice one

[naj0501]

The morning sun filtered through the curtains of our bedroom, casting soft golden stripes across the living room floor. It was a Sunday, a holiday with no work to pull me away, and I woke up feeling lighter despite the faint ache in my body-a delicious reminder of Ranjeet’s touch from yesterday. His last WhatsApp message still brought a secret smile to my lips as I stretched, the thrill of our flirty banter warming me.
I looked at the clock. It was already 9 am. I never woke up that late. I felt a little guilty in my mind also realizing Adnan was awake before me. I went to the kitchen. Ammi was preparing breakfast.
“I'm so sorry Ammi. I overslept today.” I said.
She was too busy and replied without looking at me- “ It's alright, dear. I too didn't want to disturb you. You deserve it ,at least on Holidays”
Adnan’s giggle snapped me back to the living room. He was sprawled on the rug, building a lopsided tower of colorful blocks. “Mummy, look! It’s a rocket!” he announced, his eyes bright with pride as he added another block, only for it to wobble and crash.
“Wow, champ, that’s an epic rocket,” I said, kneeling beside him and helping him gather the pieces. “Let’s make it taller this time, okay?” His enthusiasm was infectious, and I sank into the moment, my heart swelling with love for my little boy.
Ammi was in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and the aroma of aloo parathas filling the air. “Nabila, come help with breakfast,” she called, her voice a mix of command and affection. I ruffled Adnan’s hair and joined her, rolling dough balls while she stirred a pot of chai.
We worked in comfortable silence, the rhythm of cooking grounding me. Adnan darted in, sneaking a piece of paratha, and I laughed, swatting his hand playfully. “You little thief, wait for breakfast!” I teased, and he grinned, scampering back to his blocks.
At the breakfast table, Adnan munched happily on his paratha, butter smeared on his lips, while Maa’s expression turned serious. She set her chai down, her eyes locking onto mine with that piercing look that always saw too much. “Nabila,” she said quietly, so Adnan wouldn’t hear, “I need to ask you one last time. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to Asif? He’s been calling, saying he’s changed. Maybe for Adnan’s sake…”
My stomach tightened, memories of Asif’s temper-his shouting, his cruel words, the times his hands left bruises-flooded back. I set my paratha down, meeting her gaze firmly. “Ammi, no. I’m done with him. He was abusive, manipulative, and his temper made our lives hell. I’m happier without him-Adnan and I both are. I don’t need him to be a good mother, and Adnan doesn’t need a father who hurts us.”
Ammi’s eyes softened, but there was a flicker of something else-suspicion, maybe, about the late nights and flushed cheeks I’d come home with lately. She didn’t mention it, though, just nodded slowly. “You’re right, beta. I’ve seen how strong you are, how you light up for Adnan. If you’re sure, then I’m with you. We should end this properly-get the divorce finalized.”
I nodded, a weight lifting off my chest. “It’s time. I want to be free, for me and Adnan.” The words felt like a vow, and Ammi’s small smile told me she understood, even if her silence hid questions about my life she wasn’t ready to ask.
After breakfast, while Adnan played, Ammi stepped onto the balcony to call my elder brother, Sameer, in Delhi. I could hear her voice, steady but emotional, explaining Asif’s abuse, my decision, the need for a divorce. I busied myself cleaning up, but caught Sameer’s supportive tone through the phone. When Ammi returned, her face was resolute. “Sameer agrees,” she said. “He said you’re doing the right thing, and he’ll support whatever you need. He’s proud of you, Nabila.”
My throat tightened, and I blinked back tears. “Thanks, Maa,” I whispered, pulling her into a quick hug. Adnan looked up, curious, but I just smiled at him, keeping his world light.
That afternoon, after Adnan’s nap, we left him with a trusted neighbor and headed to a divorce lawyer’s office in Dadar. Ms. Sharma, a no-nonsense woman with sharp eyes, welcomed us into her small, tidy office, stacks of files neatly arranged. I explained everything-Asif’s abuse, our separation, my desire to finalize the divorce.
Ms. Sharma listened intently, jotting notes. “As '.s, your marriage is governed by the '. Personal Law (Shariat) Application Act, 1937, and for divorce, we’ll proceed under the Dissolution of '. Marriages Act, 1939,” she said, her voice steady. “Given the history of abuse, you have grounds for faskh (judicial dissolution) on the basis of cruelty. Since you’ve been separated now, and you’re the primary caregiver for Adnan, custody should be straightforward under ---c law, which prioritizes the mother for a young child. We’ll need evidence of the abuse-texts, witnesses, or medical records-to strengthen the case. If Asif contests, we may need to present this in court, but we can start the process immediately.”
I nodded, my resolve hardening. “I just want it done. I don’t want him near us again.” Ammi squeezed my hand under the table, her support unwavering, for which I was really grateful too.
Ms. Sharma outlined the process-filing the petition, serving Asif notice, and preparing for potential court hearings. “It could take a few months, depending on whether he contests,” she said. “Gather any evidence you have, and I’ll draft the petition this week.”
We left her office with a plan, the decision feeling like a step toward freedom. Ammi and I stopped at a café nearby, sipping cold coffee while Adnan’s absence tugged at my heart. “You’re doing the right thing, Nabila,” Ammi said, her voice firm but soft. “You deserve a life free of him. And Adnan deserves a happy mother.” Her eyes focussed on me, and I wondered if she suspected Ranjeet’s role in my recent glow. She didn’t ask, though, and I was grateful for her silence.
I smiled, thinking of Adnan’s giggle, the ice cream smear on his face last night. “I know, Ammi. I’m ready to close that chapter.” My phone buzzed in my purse, and I glanced at it-a new message from Ranjeet: “Missed you today, firecracker. Hope you’re surviving the domestic life. Still thinking about you… all of you. ?”
My cheeks warmed, and I slipped the phone back, aware of Ammi’s gaze but choosing not to meet it. Ranjeet’s teasing was a spark in my veins, but today was for Adnan, Ammi, and this new path forward. Tomorrow, I’d see him again, and the thought sent a thrill through me. For now, I sipped my coffee, feeling the strength of my family’s support and the promise of a life where I could be Nabila-mother, daughter, lover, and finally, fully myself.

[siva05]

Keep going good update

[monikapu32]

Thanks for the nice update 
Super narration 
Going nicely

[naj0501]

The Monday morning office buzz hit me like a shock after the cozy Sunday with Adnan and Ammi. I sat at my desk, fingers tapping out reports, but my body was alive with the memory of Ranjeet’s message from yesterday: “Missed you today, firecracker. Hope you’re surviving the domestic life. Still thinking about you… all of you. ?” His deep, teasing voice echoed in my head, sending a warm, liquid rush through me. I squeezed my thighs together under the desk, trying to shake off the heat. My black salwar kameez, with its delicate gold trim, was my professional armor, but the purple lace lingerie underneath felt like a naughty secret, clinging to my skin like a lover’s whisper.

The morning meeting was a haze of charts and deadlines, made unbearable by Ranjeet sitting across from me. He looked sharp in his crisp white shirt and blue jeans. When his eyes locked on mine, they burned with something raw and hungry. That look claimed me, made my breath hitch and my heart pound. I scribbled notes, pretending to focus, but my mind was lost in memories of that hotel room-his rough stubble grazing my inner thighs, his low voice hissing my name over and over while he was buried deep in me.

When the meeting ended, I hurried back to my cubicle, my heels clicking fast against the tiles, matching my racing pulse. Then I felt him-Ranjeet’s presence, warm and electric, as he leaned against my cubicle wall. His sandalwood cologne wrapped around me, pulling me in. That slow, wicked grin of his made my knees weak.

“Babe,” he purred, his voice a soft growl that slid down my spine, just for me. “What color are you hiding under there today?” His eyebrow lifted, his words dripping with desire.

I glanced around to make sure we were alone, then leaned closer, breathing in his scent. “Purple,” I whispered, my voice low and teasing.

“ Ohhh my god….” He acted like fainting. I chuckled at his overacting.

His eyes darkened, like a storm ready to break. A rough, hungry sound rumbled in his throat, half-laugh, half-growl. “ Ohhhh damn…. when will I be able to see it…..it's been ages,” he muttered, he glanced towards my busts before he walked away, leaving me flushed and trembling with want.

At lunch, we found a noisy corner in the cafeteria, the chatter hiding us. I slid into the seat across from him, and his playful grin softened when he saw my face. He leaned in, his eyes only on me.
“Ranjeet,” I said, my voice tight. “I need to tell you something heavy.” I took a deep breath. “Ammi and I met a divorce lawyer. I’m leaving Asif. It’s happening. He was… cruel. Abusive. I won’t let Adnan grow up like that. We’re filing the case. It’s going to be a battle, but I’m done.”

Ranjeet froze, his playful vibe gone. His jaw tightened, and a fierce, protective anger flashed in his eyes, aimed at the man who’d hurt me. He reached across the table, his warm hand covering mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles, grounding me.

“Nabila, you’re doing the right thing,” he said, his voice steady and strong. “You deserve better than him. You and Adnan deserve peace.” He squeezed my hand. “I’m here for you-whatever you need. A shoulder, a distraction, or someone to fight for you. You’re my queen, and I’ve got you. Always.”
His words melted something inside me, easing the raw ache I hadn’t realized was there. “Thank you, Ranjeet,” I whispered, my throat tight. “It means everything. Even if you’re a shameless flirt.”

His eyes sparked with mischief again, the anger fading. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to that low, husky tone that set my skin on fire.

“Shameless? No, just obsessed with my spark.” His gaze slid over me, heavy and hot. “Purple, huh? I’m dying to see it against your skin. I want to peel off that black kameez and find the fire underneath.”

I laughed, a shaky sound, and swatted his hand under the table. “Behave, we’re at work,” I teased, but my burning cheeks gave me away.

“Challenge accepted,” he said with a wink. “But seriously, keep me posted, okay?”
I nodded, my heart swelling. As we headed back, my phone buzzed. His text: “Purple’s my new favourite. Can’t wait to unwrap it.”
I bit my lip, a thrill of hot anticipation racing through me. I felt bold, not just as a mom fighting for freedom, but as a woman desired, with his strength behind me and our secret, fiery connection lighting my path.

The next week hit like a storm. A huge project from an international client dropped with a crazy deadline, turning the office into a whirlwind. I used to leave the office as per my convenience but Ranjeet worked really hard ,being responsible for timely completion of the project. But he worked hard, not looking day or night, powered by coffee and pizzas of course. The air hummed with computers and stressed-out voices.

But even in the chaos, the pull between Ranjeet and me burned hotter than ever. It was a secret game we played in stolen moments. A glance over our monitors that held more heat than the sun. A sneaky message on whatsapp:
Ranjeet: This report’s driving me nuts. I need a real distraction.
Me: Oh? What’s that?
Ranjeet: You. In that purple lace. Nothing else.
My breath caught, my cheeks flushing as I hid the chat, my fingers clumsy on the keys. He was relentless, a sweet torture in the middle of the grind.
One afternoon, we ended up alone in the pantry, the office still buzzing outside. I was stirring sugar into my fourth coffee when I felt him behind me, his warmth wrapping around me like a touch.
“Too much coffee,ehhh,” he murmured, his voice a low hum against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
“Work pressure…” I replied.
“Too much caffeine is not good for your health, Darlu… ”
“Owwww….so sweet of you…..” I replied sarcastically.
“ Not more than you…But seriously too much caffeine is not good” He replied instantly.

“I know…. But it helps in ….relaxing…” I said.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he said, his eyes tracing my jaw, dark with want. “Why don't we relax at my home. You. Me. No interruptions.”
My heart pounded. “Careful, Ranjeet. I might say yes, and then you’d have to explain why you fucked up the project.”
He laughed, a low, hungry sound. “Worth it.” His gaze turned serious. “How’s it going… with everything?”
I sipped my coffee, the heat steadying me. “The lawyer sent Asif the notice yesterday,” I said softly. “It’s real now. The fight’s started.”
His eyes hardened, that protective fire back. “Good. You okay?”
“Numb. Scared. Relieved,” I admitted. “All at once.”
“You’re a warrior, Nabila,” he said, his voice firm. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, the light touch sparking heat through me. “Let’s Get through this project. Then we’ll celebrate you breaking free.”
His thumb grazed my cheek, his eyes dropping to my lips. “God, I want you,” he rasped, his voice raw with need. “It’s torture seeing you every day, catching your scent, and not being able to touch you. To hold you. To drown in you until we forget the world.”
His words mirrored the ache inside me, the divorce fears and project pressure twisting into a desperate need for him. “I know,” I whispered, my voice thick. “You have to be patient”.
“I want to steal you away,” he said, his gaze burning. “I want to finish what we started. I want to hear you moan my name again, babe..for real, not just in my head.”
The pantry door swung open, a colleague walking in, shattering the moment. Ranjeet stepped back, the space between us cold and sharp. He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, the professional mask slipping back on. But I saw the raw need in his eyes before he gave me a quick nod and left. I stood there, trembling, my coffee forgotten, the brief moment leaving me aching for him, a reminder of the fire we both craved but couldn’t yet touch.

[monikapu32]

Wow 
Nice development in story 
Good keep it up

[siva05]

Slow and hot erotica. His words are fiery

[naj0501]

Thanks for the comments. Update on the way.

[Yash121]

Fucking awesome

[naj0501]

The rest of the afternoon was a special kind of torture. Every time I looked up, I felt Ranjeet’s eyes on me, a burning, possessive heat that made the space between my thighs clench. The frustration from our interrupted moment in the pantry simmered just below the surface, a low, dangerous hum. He was a caged tiger, his focus on the project warring with the raw, potent need that radiated from him in palpable waves.
Around four o’clock, the pressure hit its breaking point. A demand came from the client for immediate physical copies of the finalized project schematics, to be sent out with the evening courier. Ranjeet strode out of his cabin, his face set like stone, and stacked a heavy box with the thick, bound documents.
He walked past my cubicle, not stopping, but leaned in close as if to inspect my screen. The scent of his sandalwood cologne and something deeper-pure, masculine sweat-enveloped me. “I’m taking these down to the basement dispatch,” he murmured, his voice a low, private rumble meant only for me. He straightened up, and his eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. The look was an unspoken command, a raw plea, a dangerous promise. “Freight elevator. Give me two minutes.”
And then he was gone, his purposeful stride carrying him and the box out of the main office area.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage. Two minutes. The words echoed in the sudden silence of my mind. I stared at my screen, but the screen blurred into a meaningless jumble. Every second stretched into an eternity. I could feel the blood pulsing in my veins, a rhythm of fear and intoxicating excitement.
One minute passed. I took a slow sip of water, my hand trembling almost imperceptibly. I scanned the office from the corner of my eye. Everyone was engrossed, their faces illuminated by the glow of their monitors, racing against the deadline. No one was watching me. It was now or never.
After what felt like a lifetime, I pushed my chair back, stood, and smoothed down my kameez. With a steadying breath, I walked not towards the main exit, but towards the less-trafficked service corridor, my heels clicking softly on the tiled floor.
He was there, leaning against the cool wall beside the freight elevator, the heavy box of files at his feet. The relief that washed over his face when he saw me was immediate and profound, quickly replaced by the familiar, dark fire of desire. He didn't speak. He just pushed the call button.
The heavy metal doors groaned open, revealing the dim, scuffed-up car. We stepped inside. The second the doors began to grind shut, sealing us in, the air became thick with unspoken words and pent-up energy.
The moment the lock engaged, Ranjeet dropped the box. It hit the floor with a heavy, definitive thud that echoed in the sudden silence. He lunged for the control panel and slammed his palm against the large, red emergency stop button.
The elevator car jerked violently, throwing me off balance and into his chest. Then, everything went still. We were suspended, trapped between floors, the hum of the building a distant memory.
“Ranjeet…” I breathed, but the word was swallowed as he sealed my mouth with his lips.
His kiss was a brutal, starving claiming. He tasted of coffee and a week of pure, male frustration. His hand tangled in my hair, gripping the back of my head to hold me steady as his tongue drove into my mouth, an invasion I met with equal, desperate force. I whimpered into his mouth, the sound stolen by his fervent kiss.
He spun me around with a sudden, forceful twist of his hands on my shoulders, my body whirling in the confined elevator like a leaf caught in a storm. I gasped, caught off guard-I’d expected nothing more than a stolen kiss, a heated embrace to tide us over until later, but this was unexpected, urgent.
My front body was slammed against the cool, vibrating metal wall and the shock of the cold surface seeping through my kameez was like ice water. It made my nipples harden instantly against the purple lace bra. My breasts were pressed flat against the unyielding steel. My stomach was flattened against the wall. Its chill was biting into my flushed skin and my cheek grazed the metal. Its faint metallic tang filled my nostrils.
My hands shot out to brace myself with my palms slapping against the wall on either side of my head as I tried to steady myself.
“Ranjeet, wait—” I murmured but it was vague and unheard. I was surprised by the sudden action. I was concerned what would happen if someone caught us but Ranjeet was not in the mood of listening.
I pushed back with my hips, trying to break free
“Ranjeet….not here…what if……”
“Don’t worry darling…..it’s a service lift…..no one give a fuck about it…my love…” Was his reply.
His hands were everywhere, commanding and possessive: one gripped my waist firmly, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above my salwar, holding me in place with overwhelming strength. His other hand moved to my front and felt my breasts from over the kameez.
He trapped me completely with the hard length of his body, his chest a solid wall against my back and his thighs pinned mine. His hard dick pressed insistently against the curve of my soft ass. It was thick and unyielding through the layers of his jeans and my salwar and throbbing with a relentless rhythm that matched my racing pulse. It felt like a brand, hot and rigid, grinding against me with deliberate pressure, the sheer size of him making my breath hitch, a reminder of the power he held back, now unleashed in this confined space.
“I’m fucking done waiting, my love,” he snarled against my throat. His voice was thick with a week of pent-up agony and his hot breath fanning over my skin as his lips brushed my earlobe. The words were a dark vow, laced with frustration and raw need. Despite my vague resistance, my body betrayed me.I was no more resisting, instead waiting for the beautiful and lovely onslaught.
His left hand was wrapped around my waist, palm splaying flat against my belly, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of my kameez to anchor me tighter against him.His right hand slid lower and he frantically bunched up the hem of my kameez from behind, gathering the fabric higher and higher in his fist, exposing the curve of my lower back, the dip of my spine, and the tops of my hips to the cool air. His touch was urgent, rough, the material bunching in his grip until it was hiked up to my mid-back, leaving my ass vulnerable to the press of his body.
Then his right hand dropped to the knot of my salwar, fingers hooking into the drawstring with impatient precision. He tugged the knot sharply and it opened with a soft pop, waistband of salwar loosening instantly around my hips. The salwar sagged. He plunged lower, grabbing the waistband of both my salwar and the lace panties beneath in one frantic motion. With a desperate, forceful yank, he dragged them down together, the fabrics sliding over my hips in a tangled rush, exposing my bare ass and the slick, swollen lips of my pussy to the cool air.
Before I could process what just happened, his right hand threaded roughly through my thick mass of hair, fingers tangling at the nape, pulling my head back with just enough force to arch my spine. My throat exposed, my lips parted in a gasp, he twisted my head to the side and captured my mouth in a passionate kiss. His lips crushed mine, hot and demanding, his tongue thrusting deep without preamble, invading with the same urgency that pulsed through his body. He tasted of coffee and raw hunger, his stubble scbanging my cheek as he devoured me, swallowing my soft moans like it was fuel for his fire. My tongue tangled with his in desperate retaliation, the kiss turning wet and filthy, our breaths mingling in harsh pants against the metal wall.
While his mouth plundered mine, his left hand stayed firm on my belly, holding me steady as his hips ground forward, his rock-hard cock-still trapped in his jeans-nestling insistently between the cheeks of my bare ass, the thick ridge throbbing through the denim against my naked skin. The pressure was obscene, deliberate, making my exposed pussy clench emptily with every teasing grind. But he wasn't done. With his right hand still fisted in my hair, tilting my head for better access to my mouth, he fumbled at his zipper with awkward, frantic urgency, the metallic rasp of his zipper slicing through the air like a blade, the sound sharp and shocking in the confined space.
I felt the shift as he reached into his trousers, his hand brushing against my bare ass as he freed his cock, the heavy, heated weight of it springing out, thick and veined, slapping hotly against the curve of my exposed ass. It was massive, the blunt head already leaking precum, smearing a warm, sticky trail on my ass as he kicked his jeans down just enough to give himself room. My breath hitched in the kiss, surprise flaring again-this was too fast, too real-but the feel of him, bare and pulsing against me, drowned it out, my body arching back instinctively, craving the stretch despite the haze of shock.
From his pocket, he fished out a condom packet with a crinkle of foil, his right hand releasing my hair just long enough to tear it open with his teeth, the sharp rip cutting through our heavy breaths. He spat the wrapper aside, and in one fluid, desperate motion, rolled the latex down his throbbing length, the thin sheath doing little to hide the girth or the way it strained, shiny and ready, veins bulging under the surface. "Fuck, you're mine," he murmured against my lips, breaking the kiss for a split second, his voice wrecked with need, before diving back in, his tongue fucking my mouth in time with the subtle roll of his hips.
He didn't give me time to process; his left hand on my belly slid lower, pressing against my mound to hold me steady, while his right hand guided his sheathed cock to my entrance, the blunt tip parting my slick pussy with ease, teasing the throbbing heat of my pussy. "Spread wider," he growled into the kiss, his voice a shattered command, and I complied, shifting my feet apart on the scuffed floor, my body arching back in silent invitation.
With a primal thrust that stole my breath, he buried himself inside me from behind, the massive girth splitting my pussy open, filling me so completely that my scream tore from my throat, muffled against his mouth as my walls clamped down around his length, stretched to the point of exquisite agony. The condom's barrier was a mere whisper, letting me feel every vein, every pulse of him as he bottomed out, his balls pressing heavy against my thighs, his hips flush to my bare ass. The stretch burned, my pussy fluttering around him in shock and ecstasy, juices flooding down my legs as he held still for a heartbeat, savoring the tight, wet grip.
Then he moved-his hips snapping back and driving in again, hard and deep, setting a punishing rhythm that slammed my body against the vibrating metal. Each thrust pinned me firmer to the wall, my breasts dragging against the steel, nipples aching from the friction, while his left hand on my belly held me steady, fingers splaying wider to feel the bulge of his cock moving inside me through the kameez. His right hand returned to my hair, pulling just enough to arch me perfectly for his assault, his mouth latching onto the side of my neck, sucking a bruising mark as he fucked me relentlessly. The wet, obscene slap of his hips against my bare ass filled the car, mingling with my broken moans and his guttural groans, the risk of the office floors away only heightening the fire.
"Fuck Nabila….I so needed it…this tight pussy," he groaned, his voice frayed with need, his thrusts erratic now, deeper, hitting that spot inside me that made my knees buckle. The condom strained with every plunge, the latex slick with my arousal, his cock throbbing as he chased his release. My orgasm crashed over me like a tidal wave, my pussy spasming violently around his length, milking the sheathed cock as I sobbed his name, my body convulsing, juices flooding down my thighs.
He followed with a roar, his hips stuttering as he drove deep one last time, filling the condom with his hot, thick cum, the latex ballooning with his release, his body shuddering against mine in waves of raw ecstasy. We stayed locked like that, trembling, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, breaths ragged and synced. Slowly, he pulled out, the slick sound obscene, leaving me empty and aching.
The sudden emptiness was almost as shocking as the insertion, replaced instantly by the awareness of the cool, clammy air on my thoroughly wet, bare skin. He let go of my waist, and I immediately twisted away from the cool wall, turning to face him, my lower half naked, the fabrics bunched at my ankles. My legs felt like useless rubber beneath me, trembling from the double assault of the climax and the awkward position.
He didn't waste a second. His right hand instantly found the base of the condom, fingers pinching the edge of the latex. I heard a muffled, wet slurp as he peeled the slick, heavy sheath from his now-softening dick. He swiftly tied a tight knot at the opening of the ballooning condom, crushing the whole, warm mass into his palm.
"Jeez," I breathed out, my voice shaky, the reality of the mess and the location hitting me hard.
He didn't look at me, his eyes focused on the evidence in his hand as he carefully inserted the glistening, semen-filled knot back into the torn foil wrapper. He then slid the mess deep into his trousers pocket.
"What jeez….," he murmured, his gaze finally meeting mine, a possessive, dangerous glint in his eyes. "Don't tell me you want anyone to find this... or find out?"
"No," I whispered instantly, my eyes wide with panic. The very idea was paralyzing.
"Good. Then let's clean up," he said, the command cutting through the lingering passion.
Simultaneously, we moved to retrieve our composure. He swiftly tucked his heavy, semi-soft cock back into his trousers. I heard the rapid, metallic rasp of his zipper being aggressively yanked up-a deafening, frantic shing that sliced through the quiet cabin of lift, instantly trapping the rest of him in the rough denim. At the same moment, I frantically gripped the wet, tangled mass of my salwar and panties bunched around my ankles. With a staggering effort, I hauled the cold fabrics up over my hips.
My panties were twisted and my salwar was crooked.I tied the knot of my salwar in hurry and smoothed the Kameez down over my waist and hips, concealing the chaos beneath. The brief, brutal interlude was now invisible to the world.
He didn't wait for me to recover. He took a single, decisive step away from me, giving himself just enough room to reach the control panel. He slammed his palm against the emergency button, releasing the brake.
A terrifying jolt shuddered through the entire car. The emergency lights instantly extinguished, replaced by the harsh, flickering overhead fluorescent. The deep, mechanical groan of the cables returned, and we began our descent, moving fast toward the basement dispatch level.
"We have three seconds," he muttered, his eyes raking over my face, searching for any sign of mascara smears or flushed skin.
I pushed off the cool wall, trying to appear nonchalant, my body still singing with tremors. I ran trembling fingers through my hair and adjusted the collar of my kameez. The air felt thin, electric, filled with the terrifying anticipation of the doors opening.
The car CLANGED to a stop. The light above the door flashed green. We were there.
Ranjeet didn't look at me again. He simply retrieved the heavy box of schematics from the corner, his expression instantly returning to the distant, professional mask of the office tyrant.
The heavy metal doors groaned open onto the dimly lit, cavernous space of the basement dispatch area. It was, thankfully, deserted.
He walked out, the heavy box balanced easily in his arms, his posture radiating cool, powerful authority. He tossed one low, final word back over his shoulder, a private, possessive command that only I could hear.
"Wait."
I stood frozen in the center of the freight lift car, the silence deafening now that he was gone. The open doors gaped onto the echoing concrete floor of the basement, and the cool air, thick with the smell of old cardboard and machine oil, felt like a slap against my burning skin. My body was still humming, my thighs slick and sticky, and the sheer audacity of what had just happened left me dizzy. I couldn't move. I needed to breathe, to realign the chaos in my brain.
But his command echoed in my head: Wait. I knew what he meant. I couldn't just walk out of the basement or go directly back up to the fifth floor in this service lift; the lift's movements would be tracked, and returning right after him would scream of collusion.
With a final, shaky breath, I focused on the panel. My fingers, still tingling, reached out and stabbed the button marked '1'-the First Floor. The idea was simple: descend, break the timeline, and then re-enter the main building flow.
The doors groaned shut. The elevator car shuddered violently before it began its slow, heavy ascent. During the agonizing, short trip, I adjusted my salwar tie one more time, smoothing the invisible wrinkles in my kameez and dragging my palms across my face, willing the flush to dissipate.
The car stopped with another CLANG. The doors hissed open, revealing the bright, sterile marble floor of the First Floor lobby-a high-traffic area, exactly what I needed.
I stepped out, trying to adopt a casual, purposeful stride. Every muscle in my body felt tight and strained, and I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, pretending I hadn't just been ravished against a metal wall. I walked quickly past the security desk, avoiding eye contact, and made my way to the gleaming, chrome bank of main passenger elevators.
I waited impatiently, my pulse still racing, until a clean, brightly lit car arrived. I stepped inside with two other anonymous, briefcase-carrying individuals, grateful for the neutral presence of witnesses. I pressed the button for the fifth floor, feeling the smooth, silent acceleration of the passenger lift-a world away from the rattling, vibrating metal box we had just desecrated.
Leaning against the polished steel wall of the main lift, hidden behind the polite crowd, I finally allowed myself a small, secretive smile. The torture of the afternoon was over, replaced by a lingering, exquisite soreness that promised trouble. I had two floors to climb before I had to face the professional Ranjeet again.

[monikapu32]

Nice update

[naj0501]

The legal notice wasn't a rock; it was a razor. It arrived at Asif's on a Tuesday in a thick cream-colored envelope. It severed the life Asif had so carefully controlled. He never saw it coming. Our tears and our shouting matches were normal to him, just part of the fabric of our marriage.


Even he might have thought that running to my mother's house for a few days was a familiar step as I had done it before after fights. But this? This was different. A formal petition for divorce, citing the Dissolution of '. Marriages Act with its cold and printed letters, a language he couldn’t bully. The shock on his face must have curdled into rage in seconds. I hadn't just walked out. I had made it official. I had invited the law and the eyes of strangers into the closed kingdom where he was the king and his kingdom was crumbling.
His first call wasn't to his lawyer. It was to my mother. Ammi told me later his voice was a low growl, full of jagged blame. He accused her of filling my head with poison, with modern, Western ideas that had no place in his home. He spat that she had brought shame on the entire family.


"You did this!" he roared into the phone. "You turned my own wife against me! I'll ruin her. I'll make sure everyone in the world knows what kind of daughter you raised!" Ammi's voice, she said, was quiet and steady as a rock. "My daughter is saving her own life, Asif. You should have thought of shame before you raised your hand to her." Then she hung up, leaving him shouting at a dead line.
Blocked by her, he aimed his fury at me. My phone began to tremble against the table, a constant, buzzing attack. It was a storm of calls and texts. One message would be a plea, his words dripping with false sweetness: "Nabila, please, think of  Adnan. Don't do this to our family." The very next would be a threat, raw and possessive: "You are nothing without me. I will blacken your name until no one even looks at you. You are my wife and you should remember it."


But the real war began in the family WhatsApp groups. Asif posted a message dripping with sly piety, a picture of him and Adnan as his profile icon. "Please pray for my family during this difficult time. Sometimes outside forces can lead our loved ones astray. I pray that God guides my wife back to her duties as a mother and a '. woman." The screen lit up with questions. First, they were cautious emojis of praying hands. Then came the words. Aunts and cousins started calling Ammi, their voices thick with concern that felt more like pressure. The story was set: he was the wounded, patient husband. I was an ungrateful, wayward wife.


"This is exactly what we expected," my lawyer, Mrs.Sharma, said during our next call. Her voice was a calm island in my sea of panic. "He's using public shame to bully you into backing down. Do not reply. Block his number. Let him scream into the void. Save every single message you get from anyone else. Every threat he makes through them only weakens his case."


My hand shook as I found his name and pressed 'Block'. A strange, tight silence fell over my life. I knew it was the quiet before a bigger storm. A week later, Mrs. Sharma called again. "He's filed his response, Nabila. He's not contesting the divorce."


Relief washed over me so hard my knees went weak. I gripped the kitchen counter. "So it's over?"


"No," she said, her voice firm, pulling me back to reality. "The fight is just beginning. He agrees to the divorce on one condition: he gets sole, full custody of Adnan."


The world went silent. The air in my lungs turned to ice. It was about us, about our marriage. What did my son have to do with it? This was his punishment. He was going to take the very reason I breathed.
"He can't," I whispered, the words barely making a sound. "I'm his mother."


"He's going to try," she said, her voice grim. "He's claiming you're an unfit mother, emotionally unstable, and that you're poisoning Adnan against him. We are going to fight this with everything we have, Nabila. But it will be a long road."


In that moment, fear burned away and left something hard and sharp in its place. This was no longer about my escape. It was about saving my son.


The morning of the custody hearing, I chose my outfit like a soldier choosing armor. A bright kurti felt too cheerful, a dark suit too severe. I settled on a simple, plain blue cotton salwar suit with a veil. It said 'respectable'. It said 'stable'. It said 'good mother'. I wore no bright makeup, no jewelry except for tiny studs. I had to become the living, breathing proof that I was the calm, steady woman he was painting as a lunatic.


Adnan was warm and sleepy as I dressed him, his little arms wrapped tightly around my neck. I buried my face in his hair, breathing in his little-boy smell, trying to brand the memory onto my soul. A knot of pure terror tightened in my stomach. A stranger in a black robe could cut this bond with the stroke of a pen. “Mummy has a boring grown-up meeting today," I told him, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass. "You're going to have a fun day with Nani, and tonight, we'll build the biggest Lego castle in the world." He nodded, his eyes still clouded with sleep, completely unaware. My heart splintered into a thousand pieces.


The family court building hummed with a low, miserable energy. People sat slumped on hard wooden benches, their eyes fixed on the scuffed floor, their private tragedies stuffed into worn leather briefcases. And then I saw him. Asif was across the hall, speaking quietly with a man in a sharp suit. He didn't look like a monster. He looked calm, respectable, his brow furrowed with handsome worry. He was playing the part of the concerned father I once believed him to be, and he was playing it perfectly. Our eyes met across the echoing hall. He gave me a slow, deliberate nod. It wasn't a greeting. It was a declaration: Here we are. Now I will destroy you.


Inside the courtroom, the air was thick and still. We sat at separate tables, an ocean of polished wood between us. When the judge called our case, a cold sweat broke out on my palms.


Asif's lawyer began, his voice as smooth as oil. He painted a picture of a desperate father, forced into this terrible position. "Your Honour, my client was left with no choice. The petitioner's erratic and unstable behavior has become a danger to his son's well-being. We have emails, texts, where she flies into rages. Mr. Siddiqui fears for his son's psychological safety. We are asking for an emergency order granting him temporary sole custody, to provide the boy a stable and peaceful home until this matter is resolved."


My desperate pleas, my cries for help, were being twisted into proof of my madness. Mrs.Sharma laid a hand on my arm, a silent command. Stay still. Breathe. Do not let them see a reaction.


When it was her turn, her voice was clear and sharp as glass. "Your Honour, what opposing counsel calls 'erratic behavior' is the predictable, human response of a woman subjected to years of emotional and financial abuse. The truth is, my client has been the sole stable parent in this child's life. She is a working professional and a devoted mother. The only instability in her life, and in her son's, comes directly from the man sitting across this room. To remove Adnan from his mother's care now would be to cause the very harm they claim to be preventing."


The courtroom felt airless, the silence thick with tension. Asif's lawyer, Mr. Khan, stood, holding a printout of my emails like a weapon. His voice was polished and sympathetic.


"Your Honour," he began, "my client, Mr. Asif Siddiqui, is not a villain. He is a husband and father who is deeply concerned for his son. The petitioner's recent conduct has become alarmingly erratic. I draw your attention to Exhibit A."


He slid a document towards the clerk. "An email from Ms. Nabila to my client. I quote: 'You will NOT dictate my life! I am a person, not your property! I will burn everything to the ground before I let you cage me and my son!'"


Mr. Khan paused, letting the violent imagery sink in. I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. He made me sound unhinged.


"And here," he continued, holding up another paper, "a text message sent to Mr. Siddiqui's sister: 'I can't live like this anymore. His rules are suffocating me.' Your Honour, these are not the words of a stable mother. This is a pattern of defiance and rebellion against the structure of a family. Mr. Siddiqui is worried this attitude, this contempt for traditional family values, will harm his son."


As he sat, Mrs.Sharma rose. Her calm was a shield. "Your Honour," she said, her voice steady and clear, "counsel speaks of defiance, but he conveniently omits the tyranny that is being defied. Let's provide the context for that email, shall we?"


She looked at Mr. Khan. "The 'cage' my client referred to was not a metaphor. It came in direct response to an email from Mr. Siddiqui, sent after she informed him she would be ten minutes late from work because of a project deadline. His email reads, and I quote: 'A wife's first duty is to be home when her husband expects her. Your job is not an excuse. If you are not home on time, do not be surprised to find the locks changed.'"


A murmur went through the small gallery. Mrs.Sharma pressed on. "This isn't about family values, Your Honour. It's about ownership. My client is a respected professional, but in her husband's eyes, her career is merely a tolerated hobby. He has referred to her work as 'her little project that keeps her busy'."


Asif stiffened at his table, his knuckles white where he gripped a pen.
"This narrow-mindedness extends to every part of her life," Mrs.Sharma continued. "He forbade her from having dinner with her own cousin because he 'didn't approve' of her cousin's lifestyle. He demanded she delete male colleagues from her social media accounts. This isn't a husband's concern; it is a controller's obsession."


Mrs.Sharma turned her gaze to Asif. "Mr. Siddiqui, isn't it true that you insisted Nabila share her phone's location with you at all times, and would call her repeatedly if she was anywhere but her office or her home?"


"Objection!" Mr. Khan shouted, standing abruptly. "My client's concern for his wife's safety is being twisted!"


"Is that what it was, Mr. Siddiqui? Concern?" Mrs. Sharma asked, her voice cutting through the objection. "Or was it possession?"


That was the word that broke him. The carefully maintained facade of the calm, traditional man crumbled into dust. He shot to his feet, his chair scbanging loudly against the floor.


"She is my wife!" he roared, pointing a shaking finger directly at me. "It is my right to know where she is! Her first duty is to her husband and her child! Her career, her friends, her family-they come second! Always!"

"Mr. Siddiqui, you will sit down," the judge commanded, her voice sharp.

He ignored her, his face flushed with rage. "She needs to be guided! She has forgotten her place! This Western nonsense of 'freedom' has poisoned her mind! Adnan is MY son! He will be raised in a proper home with proper values, not by a woman who thinks her job is more important than her family!"

"Mr. Siddiqui!" the judge's voice was a clap of thunder. "That is enough! You will be silent, or I will have you held in contempt of this court."

The threat finally penetrated his fury. He stood there, chest heaving, his eyes burning with a hateful glare. The entire courtroom had seen it now-the raw, suffocating possessiveness he tried to dress up as tradition. He collapsed back into his chair, utterly exposed.


Mrs. Sharma had not moved an inch. She didn't have to. Asif had just confessed to everything she had accused him of.


The judge stared down at Asif, her face a mask of profound disapproval. She made a decisive note on the file before her.
"Thank you, Mr. Siddiqui," she said, her voice cold as steel. "You have made the core issue of this custody matter abundantly clear."
It was in that moment she made her ruling, citing his "deeply concerning and proprietary attitude" and his "alarming display of temper" as direct evidence that placing a child in his sole care would be a significant risk. He had lost, not because of legal cunning, but because, for one crucial moment, he had allowed the world to see his true face.


"Thank you, counselors," she said, her voice cold. Then, looking at Asif's lawyer, she added, "Your client's evidence has been very illuminating."


Her ruling was swift. "The motion for temporary custody is denied. The evidence presented raises significant concerns about the father's conduct regarding the child's welfare. Temporary sole custody is granted to the mother. The father will enroll in and complete a twelve-week anger management course. All visitations with his son are to be supervised at a court-appointed facility until the course is complete and a full evaluation is submitted."


The gavel struck the wood with a sharp crack that echoed the breaking of Asif's plan. Air rushed back into my lungs, and I felt Mrs.Sharma's hand steadying me as my body sagged with relief.
Asif's face was white. His lawyer was hissing in his ear. As they turned to leave, his eyes found mine. The mask of the worried father was gone. There was only pure, uncut hatred. He had been publicly defeated, publicly shamed. And his glare promised me this war was far from over.


That night, a fragile peace settled over our home. Ammi made my favorite biryani, its warm spices filling the kitchen. As we ate, the knot in my stomach finally began to loosen. In his little bed, Adnan was sleeping safely. For now, he was mine.


"You did it," Ammi said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "You stood up to the beast."


"Mrs Sharma did it," I said, my smile feeling weak and watery. "She saw right through him."


"She aimed the weapon," Ammi countered, her eyes fierce. "But you loaded it, Nabila. You survived him long enough to fight back. Now, you must rest." She began clearing the plates, then paused at the door. "But be careful. A snake bites hardest after it has been wounded."


She was right. Having lost in the courtroom, Asif moved the battle to a field where he held all the power: the community. The tone on WhatsApp shifted overnight. He was no longer the piously suffering husband. He was now the tragic father, wronged by a cold, biased system.


"The courts are rigged against fathers," he posted. "My wife's lawyer used clever tricks and twisted my words. They painted my love for my son as anger. Now they have stolen my boy from me. Please pray that fathers get a fair chance. Please pray that my son comes home soon."


Sympathy poured in. His relatives called our relatives. His aunts descended on Ammi, their voices dripping with fake concern. "Think of the family's honor," one pleaded. "What will people say? A father needing a stranger to watch him with his own child? It is such a deep shame. You must make Nabila see reason." He had masterfully turned the court's protective order into my act of cruelty.


A week later, it was time for the first supervised visit. The facility was a cheerless room with pale yellow walls that smelled of disinfectant. The supervisor, a tired-looking woman named Sunita, led us into a room with a few worn-out toys and a faded couch. Asif was already waiting.


He stood up, his face a perfect mask of soft-spoken pain. He was no longer the beast from the courtroom. He was just a loving dad. He ignored me completely, his entire focus on Adnan, who was clutching my leg.


"Adnan, my boy," Asif cooed, kneeling down. He held out a shiny new toy car. "Look what Papa brought for you."


Handing my son over felt like tearing off a piece of my own body. I watched from the doorway as Asif played gently with him, speaking in a low, sweet voice, performing for Sunita, who sat taking notes in the corner. I walked out of the building feeling hollowed out.


An hour later, I was back to pick him up. Adnan was quiet, clutching the new toy. He kept his eyes on the floor. The car ride home was thick with a heavy silence.


"Did you have fun with Papa?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.


He nodded, but his small face was serious. "Papa is very sad," he said, looking up at me, his big eyes filled with confusion. "He told me to tell you he's sorry. He said he wants our family to be home together again."


The words hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn't a visit. It was a mission. Asif had used that hour to plant his words, his poison, in our son's mind. He had turned my child into his little messenger, a tool in his war.


That night, as I was tucking him into bed, he looked up at me, his small face troubled. "Ammi," he whispered. "Is Papa a bad man?"
The court victory, the anger management classes, the custody order-it all felt like paper. The immense relief I had felt was gone, replaced by a cold dread. Asif had lost the battle in the hall of justice, but he had just opened a new front. The battlefield was my son's heart.

[naj0501]

Winning the court case felt like a small fire starting inside me. It gave me courage and I felt a little bit relaxed also. It was not just about keeping my son, Adnan, safe anymore. It was also about finding my own strength again.

The next day, I found Ranjeet near the coffee machine. All the other people were busy with work. The only sound was the machine making coffee.

"I won," I told him in a very soft voice. We were standing so close I could feel the warmth from his body. "The judge gave me temporary sole custody. Asif... he can only see Adnan when someone is watching them, like a stranger in an official room."

Ranjeet’s eyes lit up. His whole face looked happy, and the tenseness he had lately was gone. He gave me his special smile, the one that always made me feel weak. It was a full, honest smile that promised both happiness and trouble. He started to reach for me, but then he stopped himself. His hand was very close to my arm, and I could feel the electricity in the air between us. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a high cliff, scared to take the next step.

"Nabila," he said, his voice low and full of emotion. "This is wonderful news. You deserve this. I'm so happy for you and for Adnan." He looked at my breasts for a moment and then looked back into my eyes. He could see I was still worried. "But you don't look happy. Tell me. What is bothering you?"

I was nervous. "The visits... Asif is trying to confuse Adnan by passing secret messages to him." My voice broke, and I tried hard not to cry. Then I told him my biggest fear. "And also about us Ranjeet…We need to be extra careful ... .Especially when Asif is seeking an excuse to snatch Adnan away from me…The elevator thing….It must not happen again….please…"

I suddenly remembered our adventure in the elevator. His body was pressed against mine, and we made love with a lot of passion. It was risky and crazy. "If anyone had seen us... Asif could have used it against me in court."

Ranjeet's expression became very serious and protective. He was thoughtful for a moment, standing silently with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“You're right," he whispered, his eyes looking straight into mine. "It was madness. I am sorry for putting you at risk when you needed support." He lowered his voice. " We have to be very careful, like thieves in the night. Your safety and Adnan’s safety are the most important thing. Always."

That night, after putting Adnan to sleep, I got a What’s app message from Ranjeet.

Ranjeet: You there?

Me: Yep,

Ranjeet: What you doing ?

Me: Nothing.Just lying on bed.

Ranjeet: Should I come? Is there any space in the bed?

Me: Well….well…well…Mr.Singh….It has plenty of space.. But you need to be patient….”

Ranjeet: I guess…if this situation continues…I will be the real patient…my firecracker….

Me: Owwww ... .dear ... .few more days…please..

Ranjeet: Seriously Nabi…..I’m really tired of these things…I really want to declare openly that I love you…and I don’t care about fucking anyone….

Me: Awwww…Sweet…. believe me, every single day I dream of doing exactly like that. I want to tell the whole world that I love you.But it’s not a good time to do that now. We have to be strong together. Just for a little longer.

Ranjeet: Your safety is more important to me than anything. The only future I want is one where you and Adnan are safe and happy. That is my only goal.

Me: So…sweett…love…I'm not used to being someone's main goal.

Ranjeet: Then get used to it Janeman.You deserve to be loved.

Me: That distance felt very small in the office today.

Ranjeet: Please don't say that. It was very difficult not to touch you. I just wanted to hold you and kiss your fear away.

Me: No…It can be dangerous…lol..I expected only a kiss in the elevator…..And you took more than that….

Ranjeet: Ohhh…come…. on darling. Don’t put blame on me only….You too did’nt stop me… you were complicit also…

Me:  Only you are to be blamed , Mr. Innocent….You made me weak…with ….all of your charms….

Ranjeet: Not my fault…..You are the main culprit…jaanu…. Whenever I see you…your dark eyes….your silky hair….your boobs….your ass….your perfect body….my heart starts pounding like it would go out of my body….and my Popat lal stands up to salute you…….

Me: Bad boy…..I guess from tomorrow I will have to wear an Abaya (Burqa) to hide my body…..

Ranjeet: OMG ... .Don't say that ... .It will have exactly the reverse effect on me…..I really like the woman in Abayas ... ... .I find it very hot…

Me: Strange…

Ranjeet: I’m being honest…

Me: Ok..Ok…Mr.Honest…it’s getting late now…We should sleep otherwise it would get late in the morning…
.
Ranjeet: Ohk…as you like my love……But i’m really happy for you winning the case.

Me: Thank you Ranjeet…

Ranjeet: Welcome….Luv u….

Me: Luv u 2…Now sleep…Good Night…

Ranjeet: Wait…

Me:What…

Ranjeet: Send me pic of good night kiss..please…

Me: Owwww….dear…

I pouted my lips and took the photo and sent it to Ranjeet..

Ranjeet: Wooow…..precious….Thanks wildfire…

Me: Now…go…Gn…

At work, we started acting like we barely knew each other. We were Mr. Singh and Ms. Siddiqui. If we passed in the hallway, we would just nod. Our real conversations happened late at night, through messages.

The real test came a few days later, outside the family center where Adnan meets his father. The supervisor, Sunita, met me.

"He was well-behaved," she said. "But..." she pointed to Adnan, who was walking towards me holding a new tablet. "Papa gave it to me!" Adnan said happily. "It has games! He said he is very lonely and we can video call every night so he can see my face."

I felt sick. The tablet was not a gift; it was a trick. It was Asif's way to get past the rules and into our home. He could now talk to Adnan without any supervision.

That evening, Ammi saw me staring at the tablet. "So," she said, "He has learned new tricks." "It's worse, Ammi," I said. "If I take the tablet away, I'm a bad mother. If I let him keep it, Asif is in his bedroom every night." Ammi was calm. "You don't play his game. You change the rules. Talk to your lawyer. All calls must be scheduled, and you must be present for them. He wants to be the 'fun' father, but fun fathers must also respect boundaries."

Her words made me feel stronger. Later that night, I told Ranjeet what happened.

Ranjeet: The clever bastard. He couldn't get through the main door, so he tried to enter through window….

Me: Exactly. Ammi says I have to set rules. But I'm so tired of fighting all the time.

Ranjeet: I know. But you're fighting for that peaceful life we talked about. Every rule you make is another brick in our foundation.

Ranjeet: And this trick shows he is getting desperate. He is losing control. It means you are winning.

Me: It doesn't feel like I'm winning.

Ranjeet: Forget that loser….and focus on positive things….

The next week, my lawyer, Mrs. Sharma, sent a formal email to Asif's lawyer with the new rules: The tablet was only for games. All video calls had to be scheduled with me and happen on my phone, while I was present.

One evening, I was tucking Adnan into bed. "Mummy," he asked, "is Papa mad at me? Is that why you have to watch us when we talk?" His words broke my heart. He thought this was his fault. "No, my love. Never," I said, hugging him. "This is about grown-up rules. You have done nothing wrong."

Life slowly became a little more peaceful. Asif followed the new rules and was quiet. At work, Ranjeet and I continued to act like strangers, but our love was still there, hidden in small things. A book left on my desk, a secret note in a shared computer file.

I took Adnan to a therapist, Dr. Aliya. She gave me great advice. She said, "When Adnan says 'Papa is sad,' you should say, 'It's okay for Papa to be sad. But your only job is to be a kid. Grown-up feelings are for grown-ups.'" She also told me to create new, happy memories with him.

So, I made an "Adventure Jar" filled with fun activities written on slips of paper. The first one he picked was "Visit the Vintage Car Museum." We had a wonderful time. I took him to the Zoo and fun park with my Ammi. Adnan was just a little boy again, his face alight with wonder, the shadows of the past few days momentarily banished. As he chattered excitedly on the drive home, I felt a profound shift.  I felt like I wasn't just protecting my son anymore; I was rebuilding his happy childhood.

[monikapu32]

Nice update 
Thanks

[Yash121]

Asif is fucking smart guy...