8 hours ago
Chapter 33: Into the Velvet Abyss
"What was that Namrata talking about? And why do I keep hearing the name of this Patode fellow? What's going on, Shipra?" Alok's voice was low but sharp, laced with suspicion and a hint of accusation. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he studied her every move.
Shipra froze for a split second, her fingers tightening around the zipper of her handbag. She had just shoved a packet of condoms inside, and for a moment, her heart skipped a beat—had he seen? But his words pointed elsewhere, and a silent breath of relief escaped her lips.
"Ohh, that..." she said, forcing a casual tone, masking the anxiety under a practiced smile. She shrugged, attempting to sound dismissive. "You know Namrata, Alok. She has this habit of pulling your legs. Always trying to stir drama for her amusement. Don't take her too seriously."
She waved her hand nonchalantly as she brushed past him into the hall, hoping to steer the conversation away. Alok followed her slowly, not convinced.
But then, she stopped. Her shoulders stiffened, and she turned around abruptly, her eyes flashing with restrained irritation.
"But," she added, her voice sharper now, laced with sarcasm, "if you’ve got something eating you up, Alok—something you’ve been wanting to say, like you tried to this morning—why don’t you just spit it out? Stop hiding behind Namrata's words just to avoid confrontation. After all, I am your wife, you can demand answers from me like a man."
Alok looked momentarily taken aback but quickly recovered, his expression softening just a bit.
"Look, Shipra... I’m sorry if my words hurt you this morning. That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t want to fight then, and I don’t want to now." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he struggled to put his emotions into words. "It’s just that... ever since your rural posting, you’ve changed. I mean, you seem more..."
He hesitated, fumbling for the right word—one that wouldn’t come across as offensive, one that wouldn’t set off another argument.
"More what, Alok?" Shipra shot back. "Demanding? Vocal? Careless? Insensitive? What exactly are you trying to say?"
Her voice had a sharp edge to it now, her arms crossed defensively. There was no room left for ambiguity.
"You’re taking this in the wrong way," Alok replied quickly, but his voice cracked under pressure. "But this... this very reaction—this retaliation, this unusual impatience in your behaviour—it’s exactly what I’m trying to explain. You never used to talk to me like this. Something has changed, Shipra. You’ve grown distant—not just from me, but from the dream we shared. Especially ever since you started spending time with that so-called messiah of the female community."
His words came out bitter, the frustration he'd kept buried now spilling into the room.
Shipra’s face shifted, her expression softening—not from guilt, but from something deeper. A memory. Her conversation with Namrata earlier that day, echoing inside her like a forbidden truth.
/********
“Look, Shipra,” Namrata had said, her voice steady but low, the kind of tone that wrapped concern and corruption in the same breath. “Alok isn't going to change. You said it yourself—he won’t listen to his own mother, let alone you. You keep hoping he’ll see what he’s doing to you, but men like him don’t see past their own egos. Believe me, I’am speaking through experience. You can keep venting out your feelings but it will not melt his heart because Alok can't see beyond his ambition right now.”
Shipra had sat quietly, trying to sip her tea without letting her shaking hands show. She remembered the way Namrata leaned in closer, her eyes locked on hers, not blinking.
“So here’s what I suggest. Don’t fight. Don’t try to make him understand how his indifference is suffocating you. He won’t understand. And the more you push, the more suspicious and controlling he’ll become. It’ll only end in fights. Heartache. Maybe worse.”
“Then what? Just suffer in silence? Let him ruin our future?” Shipra had asked bitterly.
Namrata had smiled—not with joy, but with a sort of tragic wisdom. “No. Just play the part. Whenever you're here in these few months, be what he wants to see—a supportive, loving wife. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t ask for understanding. Let his ego stay intact. You’ll feel lighter too. Less tension, less conflict.”
Then, with chilling ease, she had added:
“And once you’re back in Ambruj, you have Patode. He’s more than willing to give you what Alok can’t. Emotional freedom, physical pleasure. Relief. Satisfaction. You can have both lives, Shipra. One where you’re the doting wife... and another where you’re unapologetically yourself. Isn’t that what you deserve?”
The words had stayed with her like poison sugar—sickening but strangely sweet.
**********/
The sarcasm that had moments ago underlined Shipra's words began to dissolve, melting under the weight of Namrata’s voice still echoing in the corners of her mind. “Don’t argue. Don’t try to explain. Just give him what he wants to hear.” But doing that was easier said than done.
Her voice dropped—not in defeat, but in a weary, quiet resignation. The kind of tone that grows from months of holding things in, from a thousand unsaid things folded into the corners of her day-to-day. She wasn't ready to surrender, but she was too drained to keep fighting.
“Look, Alok... I don’t want to fight either.” Her voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges that had once protected her. “I get what you’re trying to say. And maybe you’re right... maybe, I have changed. I haven’t been myself lately.”
She paused, eyes flickering away as she pulled in a breath—not to calm herself, but to summon the courage to say what followed. Her tone grew slower, measured, the words chosen carefully, painfully.
“I’m just tired, Alok.” She said it with a helpless smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Tired of acting strong all the time. Tired of carrying everything on my shoulders without ever showing the cracks. The rural posting is tough, the workload is relentless, and I feel like I’m losing pieces of myself trying to hold everything together. I'm far from home, far from the things that make me feel grounded. And in all that... I have been missing being with my son, with you. More than I thought I would.”
She looked at him again, her voice growing thinner, the restraint beginning to tremble.
“I’m not complaining. I know I have to bear this responsibility. Neither am I blaming you. I know your path hasn’t been easy either. I stood by you, remember? When you left your job, when you said you needed time, I said okay. I didn’t question it. Not even once. Even when your mother did. I just... hoped that when I came home, I’d feel that we were still on the same side.”
She took a step closer, but something invisible still stood between them.
“Can’t we forget this stupid argument and just meet halfway? Like we used to, without keeping score?”
There was no venom. No accusation. Just a quiet plea dressed in vulnerability. The kind of raw honesty that hurts more than it heals.
“Are you getting what I’m trying to say?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes shimmered—not from the raw emotion she longed to release, but from the sheer effort of holding it all back. It wasn’t sadness that welled up—it was restraint.
She didn’t expect Alok to understand. Not fully. Maybe not even at all. But still, a part of her—quiet, stubborn, and aching—wanted to try one last time. To say just enough to awaken the man she once fell in love with. The man who used to listen, who used to see her.
Even if only to silence the voice inside her head—“Don’t ruin it. Don’t push him. Say what he wants to hear. Keep the peace.”
And so, she stood there. Somewhere between pretending and confessing, between caring and detaching. Trying to end the conversation, not for resolution, but for survival.
“It’s just a matter of a few more months, Shipra,” Alok said, his voice calm, trying to sound reassuring. “I get it—it’s not easy. And I know it hasn’t been fair to you. But you have to understand, behaving like this... at this point, when everything is riding on these next few months—it doesn’t help me.”
He paused, gauging her expression, hoping to find some sign of agreement.
“And it’s not just about your mood. The way you acted, and reacted last—” Alok began, almost relieved to finally bring up the simmering discomfort that had clung to him since the night before, but Shipra raised a hand gently, cutting him off with a composed firmness.
“It’s okay, Alok.” Her voice was soft, almost too calm—like a still lake right before a storm. “I’ve realised my mistake.” The words felt foreign in her mouth, but they flowed effortlessly, rehearsed in her mind ever since Namrata’s warning.
“You’re right—this is a critical time for you and I won’t push you. Not until you achieve your goal. I’ll give it a few more months, and hopefully... once my rural tenure is over, things will find their way back on track.”
She let out a long breath—not just of resignation, but of quiet surrender. Not to him, but to her current situation.
Her eyes didn’t linger on him. Instead, she straightened up, offered a polite, practiced smile, “You must be exhausted. Go freshen up, and I’ll set up dinner. We can talk more later tonight, in bed.”
Alok hadn’t said everything he wanted to. The discomfort that had been gnawing at him still lingered, unspoken and unresolved. But seeing Shipra calm, accommodating—even willing to adjust—was enough to ease his mind for now. Her return to “normal” felt like stability, and that was all he craved in this crucial stretch of his journey.
He mistook her silence for understanding, her softness for support. And so, he let it be.
Meanwhile, Shipra quietly buried the urge to open her heart, to voice the pain that had been building inside her for months. She watched Alok retreat once again into the safety of his dreams, oblivious to the slow erosion of their bond. He didn’t see her restraint. He didn’t hear the ache behind her words. And he didn’t recognise the silence not as peace—but as her last, exhausted cry for a sliver of empathy.
All she had wanted was to be heard. To be seen. Not as a distraction to be managed, but as a woman unravelling inside.
***********************************************
"Don’t get too smart with me, Patode," the MLA growled, his voice cold, razor-sharp, and simmering with restrained fury. "I may not be educated, but I’ve survived and thrived through more power struggles than you can imagine. I’ve clawed my way up from the dirt, long before you were even learning to navigate the dirty backchannels of politics."
He paused, letting the silence bite, then continued with a tone dipped in quiet menace. "You think I got to this seat by playing fair? I’ve seen snakes like you slither and fall a hundred times. So don’t fuck with me. I need only one thing from you right now—assurance. I want to hear it from your lips that your recklessness in Ambruj won’t cost me the goddamn election. That’s all that matters to me. Nothing else."
On the other end of the call, Patode remained calm, his voice steady, almost nonchalant.
"You won’t lose, Bhau," he said, addressing the MLA with the local term of respect, but without a trace of fear. "In fact, with that lunatic Saad finally out of the picture, you’ll win this one by a landslide. I give you, my word. The people of Ambruj were sick of his chaos—his dramatics, his defiance, his unpredictability. They wanted change. Stability."
A beat passed.
"And I’m that stability now," Patode added, a subtle note of ambition laced in his assurance. "You can trust me to keep the business here running smooth. No more surprises."
There was a heavy silence on the other end before the MLA finally spoke, his tone cold and calculated. “We’ll see about that. And don’t mistake my silence for forgiveness, Patode. I’m only letting this slide because the elections are breathing down our necks. You're on thin ice. One wrong move—just one more surprise—and your fate will make Saad’s look like a mercy killing.”
The line went dead.
Patode stared at the screen for a second, jaw clenched, before slipping the phone into his pocket with a bitter laugh.
“Bloody son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. "Just you wait you old fucker, like Saad I'll have your seat one day too." He continued with a smirk as he walked. "Let's go bahadur, take me to Saad's place. It's time to take control of things."
***********************************************
"You cannot do that!” Salim’s voice rose sharply, the calm mask cracking as anger surged through. “This will cause a huge monetary loss to my business, madam! I’ve just opened that dhaba—it’s brand new. I can’t just shut it down over some murder I have nothing to do with!”
Shrutika leaned back in her chair, letting the outburst hang in the air for a moment before responding. When she did, her voice was firm, low, and devoid of any sympathy.
“Calm down, Mr. Salim,” she said, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade. “This isn’t your office, and I’m not one of your workers you can bully into silence. This is a murder investigation and I’m simply following procedure. A murder took place on your premises, it's a crime scene now and until we’re certain of what happened and who’s involved, your Dhaba will remain sealed.”
She stood up slowly, closing the distance between them, she perched atop the desk, her eyes locked onto his with unflinching authority. “And as far as your involvement goes—if you truly have nothing to hide, then you have no reason to be afraid. Co-operate with us. Once we have a lead, and your name is cleared, you’ll be free to reopen and carry on as usual. Until then, don’t test my patience. Am I clear?”
The intensity in her gaze bore down on Salim. He hesitated for a moment, then slumped back into the chair, still fuming but visibly shaken. His voice, though lower, carried a warning edge.
“You may be new here, SHO madam, but don’t forget—I’m a well-renowned man in the Ambruj district. This… this isn’t over. You’ll be hearing from me again.” He rose, adjusting the cuff of his kurta as he spoke. “Now, unless I’m under arrest, I believe I can take my leave?”
Shrutika didn’t blink. Her face was unreadable, but her mind was already running calculations. He hadn’t said much—but his defensiveness, his agitation, his eagerness to walk out—they said enough.
“You may go for now, Mr. Salim,” she said evenly, “and yes as you said this isn't over. We’ll be in touch. I expect your full cooperation if and when you're called again.”
Salim didn’t respond. He turned on his heel and walked out, his sandals slapping hard against the tiled floor as if trying to stamp out the humiliation.
Chetan, who had been silently observing the exchange from the adjacent chair, rose to follow his boss.
“Where do you think you're going, Chetan,” Shrutika said, her voice halting him mid-step. “You stay put. I have more questions for you—and I suggest you answer them carefully.”
Chetan sat back down slowly, suddenly aware of how loud his heartbeat had become. The room, still charged from the confrontation, now shifted its weight entirely onto him.
***********************************************
“Oh man, that was intense,” Alok exhaled, his voice breathless as he collapsed onto the bed beside Shipra. A sheen of sweat glistened on his chest, his body spent and satisfied. “Make-up sex is always the best, don’t you think? I’m glad we sorted out that little spat.”
Shipra offered a faint smile, more out of habit than agreement. “Yeah... me too,” she murmured, pulling the blanket up to her chin as she turned slightly away from him.
But her mind wasn’t there—not really. She wasn’t basking in the afterglow, nor comforted by the supposed reconciliation. A part of her floated above it all, detached, just playing the role of a perfect partner.
Tonight, unlike the night before, she didn’t try to push Alok to reclaim her. She didn’t coax herself to feel the same connection, she felt in the early days of her marriage or before her affair with Patode. There was no effort to match Alok’s rhythm or sync her breath with his. And yet, her body responded—not to him, but to the vivid recollection of something far more primal, far more consuming.
She moaned, yes—but it wasn’t Alok who stirred that sound from her lips. It wasn’t his touch that sent waves of heat rushing through her. Her arousal rose not from the man beside her, but from the memory of another man, another night, another place—one far removed from this quiet bedroom and the careful, measured love of a husband.
In her mind, she wasn’t under Alok’s familiar weight. She was elsewhere—back in Ambruj, where the air was thick with secrecy and the taste of forbidden sin still lingered on her skin. There, passion didn’t arrive politely. It devoured. There, she wasn’t a wife holding herself together—she was a woman unchained, consumed by a hunger that left no room for hesitation or guilt.
Even as Alok moved inside her, even as his hands searched her skin, her thoughts betrayed her. They returned, uninvited and uncontrollable, to Patode. She recalled the way Patode’s hands gripped her hips with unrelenting need, the bruising intensity of every thrust, the lustful hunger in his eyes, the desperate rhythm of bodies crashing in a frenzy that felt almost feral. There had been no space for thought, only sensation—raw, urgent, and thrilling in its recklessness. The danger of it. The sheer wrongness of it. It all merged into an intoxicating storm that still echoed in her bones.
She remembered the sound of her voice then—nothing like the stifled sighs she gave Alok now. It had been wild, guttural, torn from the depths of her being. There had been no performance, no pretending. Her back had arched then not because she was expected to, but because her body demanded it. Because Patode didn’t ask for permission—he took. And she gave. Willingly. Desperately.
He hadn’t just held her. He had consumed her. Taken her apart piece by piece and rebuilt her into something raw and aching. And in those moments, she had come alive in ways she never thought possible.
That was where her mind fled now.
Not to this bed, not to this man who still clung to the idea of her, blind to what she had become. But to that room of sin and sweat, where nothing was sacred and everything was real.
That was where she still felt something. That was where she remembered who she was beneath the wife, beneath the silence, beneath the restraint.
Alok finally groaned—deep and guttural—as his climax surged through him, his body stiffening, then collapsing against hers with a weightless sigh of satisfaction. His breath caught in his throat, teeth gritted as he cummed inside her, completely consumed by the blinding rush of his own release.
Fuckkkk…
A small, broken sound escaped Shipra’s lips—a whimper so soft that Alok mistook it for pleasure, his ego swelling at the thought of having satisfied her. But for Shipra, it was something else entirely. A cry of frustration, of hollow emptiness, of being so achingly close to something real and yet impossibly far.
She simply closed her eyes and disappeared again into the memory of the one who made her feel.
Turning to her side, Shipra pulled the blanket over her shoulder, as if its weight could muffle the craving that still pulsed through her. She had hoped the act would quiet the ache, would momentarily satisfy her, but instead it only deepened the void. Having tasted the raw edge of pleasure, her body now recognized the difference—between passion and duty, between indulgence and routine.
And in that haunting contrast, something inside her cracked a little more.
A dull throb stirred between her legs—not from Alok’s efforts, but from a hunger that had gone untouched, unresolved. It wasn’t just a physical need—it was a memory etched into her very nerve endings. She tried to silence it, to remind herself of who she was with, but the images came anyway—unrelenting, vivid.
Patode's energy haunted her like a phantom lover. The way his fingers brushed her hips, the way he bit her shoulder just enough to make her gasp, the way he spoke to her—commanded, dominated and humiliated her. Her nipples tingled at the thought, desperate for the pinch that always pushed her over the edge. Her thighs clenched, a subconscious plea for something rougher, wilder. Beneath the covers, she bit her lip, her hand drifting unconsciously toward her heat—an instinct, not a decision.
But just as her fingers brushed over her own skin, a voice shattered the haze.
"Shipra, why do I keep hearing this Patode fellow’s name so often? What’s up with that?"
Alok’s voice, clear and pointed, cut through the fog in her mind like a blade. Her breath hitched. Her body froze. The desire that moments ago had swelled inside her now drained away, replaced by an icy tension. Slowly, she pulled her hand back and let it rest, still, under the blanket.
"What do you mean, Alok?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, carefully neutral. She didn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t.
"I don’t know," Alok said after a pause, his tone casual, but laced with something sharper underneath. Suspicion. "The way Namrata mentioned him today… and even before that when you both were in Ambruj. His name just keeps popping up. And from what it sounds like, his involvement with you guys seems a little... I don’t know... a little too friendly."
Shipra swallowed hard; her mouth suddenly dry. Her heart thudded once against her ribcage, then stilled. She had known this moment would arrive eventually. But not like this. Not so soon. Not in the middle of her silent unravelling.
Still, she didn’t hesitate. Her response had been rehearsed multiple times in her mind, polished until it gleamed with just the right balance of calm and calculated innocence.
“There’s nothing of that sort, Alok,” she said smoothly, her voice even, practiced as she turned towards Alok. “You know how Namrata is—flirtatious by nature. She flirts like that with Patode too. It’s just her way.”
She paused, letting her words settle before continuing, slipping into her role with precision.
“As for me and him… he’s just a colleague. A helping hand at the office, nothing more.”
But then her tone shifted, just slightly—like silk catching on something sharp.
A subtle warmth crept in, laced with something darker.
“That said, he is quite skilled… and has an impressively deep reach.”
Her lips twitched a little at the corner. She didn’t break eye contact, even as the weight of her words lingered in the air, their double meaning unmistakable. She let it hang there, just long enough to draw blood beneath the surface.
“In sourcing business for the branch, I mean,” she added, her tone lightly teasing now. “So his involvement is unavoidable. You’ll probably keep hearing about him from time to time.”
Her gaze held Alok’s a second longer before she delivered the final blow with practiced ease.
“But you don’t need to worry. It’s strictly professional. Just a mutually beneficial arrangement until my tenure ends. He fulfils my needs, and I… allow him to operate freely. Without restrictions.”
A smirk curved her lips—sharp, deliberate.
Every word had been measured, dipped in honey and laced with venom.
It was her quiet rebellion. Her way of venting out her anger against Alok.
And Alok, still wrapped in the hazy afterglow of release, nodded slowly. His mind, dulled by pleasure, tried to process her words—but they slipped through the cracks like sand. There was something in her tone he couldn’t quite place. Something that didn’t sit right. A tease? A joke? A warning?
He couldn’t tell.
"Let’s sleep now,” Shipra said softly, placing a gentle hand on his chest. Her touch was tender, almost affectionate—habitual, not heartfelt. “You have your coaching in the morning, and I need to start packing for my return.”
She leaned in and brushed a kiss against his cheek—light, precise, distant. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned away from him, pulling the sheet over herself as she shifted to the edge of the bed. Her back, now a quiet wall between them, seemed to close a door he hadn’t realized was even open.
“Good night,” she said, her voice low, final.
And just like that, she was gone—curled away from him, eyes closed, already somewhere far beyond his reach.
Alok stared at the ceiling for a long moment, her words replaying in fragments:
Skilled… deep reach… fulfils my needs… no restrictions…
Each phrase echoed with a weight he couldn't ignore. They sounded innocuous on the surface—professional, logical—but something about the way she said them, that flicker of something in her eyes, had lodged a splinter in his mind.
He rolled onto his back, blinking into the dimness of the room, questions piling up in the space she’d left behind.
She had told him not to worry.
But now, he couldn’t stop.
***********************************************
“Don’t worry, Salim bhai,” Patode said coolly, swirling the whisky in his glass before taking a slow sip. The clink of ice was the only sound in the room for a moment. “I’ll have your dhaba reopened in no time. With the MLA’s blessings, I’ve already begun yakking over things. This little hiccup with that new SHO—she’s just a temporary nuisance. Nothing we can’t handle.”
Salim didn’t share the same confidence. He leaned forward in his chair, worry etched deep into the lines on his face, his voice tight with concern. “I’m not worried about when it reopens, Patode. It’s what’s inside that Dhaba that’s making my chest heavy. That new SHO… she’s sharp. Not like the gullible ones we’re used to—she’s smart and active. If she gets access to that desktop in my office—my personal files, my accounts, contacts… the videos.....we’re both screwed.”
Patode smirked and waved dismissively, like brushing away a fly.
“Salim bhai, if the Indian security officer were half as efficient as you’re giving them credit for, we’d have been rotting behind bars years ago. Don’t lose sleep over it. That greenhorn will soon be overwhelmed with pressure, and in a couple of weeks, this whole thing will be buried under election noise. Saad Hasan was a criminal, not a martyr. Sure, his followers will cry foul, there’ll be a few slogans, maybe even a rally or two—but it’ll pass. The MLA will make sure of it. She’ll be moved, transferred, or get used to the work culture here. And you, my friend, will be back to your chicken curry and black books.”
Salim remained tense, drawing deep on his cigarette, the orange ember flaring in the dimly lit room.
“But what if she gets to Bhiva?” he asked quietly. “He's a loose end. He knows too much. He’s the one link between Saad, the hit, and… you.”
Patode chuckled, a low, confident sound, almost amused by the idea. He leaned forward slowly, his expression shifting from casual arrogance to cold calculation.
“Salim bhai,” he said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I orchestrated the fall of Saad Hasan—Ambruj’s so-called don. You think it’ll take me more than a minute to silence a rat like Bhiva? One whispered tip to Saad’s bloodthirsty disciples, a hint that Bhiva was the real betrayer, and they’ll do the job for me. No blood on my hands, no trail back to us. All loose ends tied, neatly and permanently.”
The room grew quiet again. Salim’s shoulders slackened, the tension giving way to resignation. He sank into his chair, blowing out a slow plume of smoke.
“You’re even more dangerous than that bastard Saad,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Sometimes I wonder if getting mixed up in this madness with you was worth it.”
Patode’s smile returned, relaxed and confident, as he leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.
“Don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “I’ll make it worth your while. One of those sluts is returning tomorrow—the married one with the fire. This time around I'll break her. Tame her completely. Then she’s yours. Squeeze every paisa’s worth out of her.”
He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Until then, enjoy the digital entertainment I’ve been feeding you. Will send you a new video tomorrow evening. High quality. Totally wild and hot.”
Patode winked, the gesture lewd and laced with depravity, before downing the rest of his drink in one smooth gulp, slamming the glass back onto the table with a clink.
Across from him, Salim exhaled a lungful of smoke, the earlier tension now replaced with an unsettling ease. Patode’s confidence was infectious—his ruthlessness, even more so. The idea of the “show” stirred something primal in Salim. A wicked grin twisted across his face, his eyes sharpening with a gleam of dark excitement. Leaning forward slightly, his voice lowered, oozing depravity, he murmured, “Why don’t you make some arrangement… so I can see it all happen? Live. With my own eyes. That would be so much hotter, Patode.”
Salim was testing the waters, using the leverage he had, seeing how far Patode was willing to go, and how much sin he was willing to share.
Patode didn’t blink. Instead, his lips curled subtly, a glint flashing through his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the armrest, as if weighing the implications of what had just been proposed. Then, with a tone disturbingly casual, he replied, “I don’t see why that cannot be arranged.” He let the sentence hang in the air for a second too long, then added, “In fact… I’ve been thinking of pushing her further. Testing her limits.”
He paused deliberately, locking eyes with Salim before continuing, “This could be the perfect step toward something bigger. Toward sharing her, towards degrading her beyond reconciliation.”
The suggestion was laced with a sinister undertone, yet delivered like a business offer. It was a masterstroke—one that not only fed Salim’s twisted desires but also subtly reminded him who held the reins. In that moment, Salim forgot about the mess he was in. All he could think about now was the spectacle, and his front-row seat to it.
The two men sat there, the silence thick with indulgence, the room reeking of whisky, tobacco, and the kind of moral rot that festers behind closed doors. Outside, the distant sound of traffic and temple bells echoed faintly—life going on, unaware, uninterested.
And inside, Patode and Salim celebrated not just the death of Saad Hasan, but their own brutal ascent. They were drunk—not just on liquor, but on power, greed, and lust. No remorse. No fear. Just the satisfaction of two predators circling the throne left behind by another fallen beast.
***********************************************
Continued to the next post...
"What was that Namrata talking about? And why do I keep hearing the name of this Patode fellow? What's going on, Shipra?" Alok's voice was low but sharp, laced with suspicion and a hint of accusation. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he studied her every move.
Shipra froze for a split second, her fingers tightening around the zipper of her handbag. She had just shoved a packet of condoms inside, and for a moment, her heart skipped a beat—had he seen? But his words pointed elsewhere, and a silent breath of relief escaped her lips.
"Ohh, that..." she said, forcing a casual tone, masking the anxiety under a practiced smile. She shrugged, attempting to sound dismissive. "You know Namrata, Alok. She has this habit of pulling your legs. Always trying to stir drama for her amusement. Don't take her too seriously."
She waved her hand nonchalantly as she brushed past him into the hall, hoping to steer the conversation away. Alok followed her slowly, not convinced.
But then, she stopped. Her shoulders stiffened, and she turned around abruptly, her eyes flashing with restrained irritation.
"But," she added, her voice sharper now, laced with sarcasm, "if you’ve got something eating you up, Alok—something you’ve been wanting to say, like you tried to this morning—why don’t you just spit it out? Stop hiding behind Namrata's words just to avoid confrontation. After all, I am your wife, you can demand answers from me like a man."
Alok looked momentarily taken aback but quickly recovered, his expression softening just a bit.
"Look, Shipra... I’m sorry if my words hurt you this morning. That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t want to fight then, and I don’t want to now." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he struggled to put his emotions into words. "It’s just that... ever since your rural posting, you’ve changed. I mean, you seem more..."
He hesitated, fumbling for the right word—one that wouldn’t come across as offensive, one that wouldn’t set off another argument.
"More what, Alok?" Shipra shot back. "Demanding? Vocal? Careless? Insensitive? What exactly are you trying to say?"
Her voice had a sharp edge to it now, her arms crossed defensively. There was no room left for ambiguity.
"You’re taking this in the wrong way," Alok replied quickly, but his voice cracked under pressure. "But this... this very reaction—this retaliation, this unusual impatience in your behaviour—it’s exactly what I’m trying to explain. You never used to talk to me like this. Something has changed, Shipra. You’ve grown distant—not just from me, but from the dream we shared. Especially ever since you started spending time with that so-called messiah of the female community."
His words came out bitter, the frustration he'd kept buried now spilling into the room.
Shipra’s face shifted, her expression softening—not from guilt, but from something deeper. A memory. Her conversation with Namrata earlier that day, echoing inside her like a forbidden truth.
/********
“Look, Shipra,” Namrata had said, her voice steady but low, the kind of tone that wrapped concern and corruption in the same breath. “Alok isn't going to change. You said it yourself—he won’t listen to his own mother, let alone you. You keep hoping he’ll see what he’s doing to you, but men like him don’t see past their own egos. Believe me, I’am speaking through experience. You can keep venting out your feelings but it will not melt his heart because Alok can't see beyond his ambition right now.”
Shipra had sat quietly, trying to sip her tea without letting her shaking hands show. She remembered the way Namrata leaned in closer, her eyes locked on hers, not blinking.
“So here’s what I suggest. Don’t fight. Don’t try to make him understand how his indifference is suffocating you. He won’t understand. And the more you push, the more suspicious and controlling he’ll become. It’ll only end in fights. Heartache. Maybe worse.”
“Then what? Just suffer in silence? Let him ruin our future?” Shipra had asked bitterly.
Namrata had smiled—not with joy, but with a sort of tragic wisdom. “No. Just play the part. Whenever you're here in these few months, be what he wants to see—a supportive, loving wife. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t ask for understanding. Let his ego stay intact. You’ll feel lighter too. Less tension, less conflict.”
Then, with chilling ease, she had added:
“And once you’re back in Ambruj, you have Patode. He’s more than willing to give you what Alok can’t. Emotional freedom, physical pleasure. Relief. Satisfaction. You can have both lives, Shipra. One where you’re the doting wife... and another where you’re unapologetically yourself. Isn’t that what you deserve?”
The words had stayed with her like poison sugar—sickening but strangely sweet.
**********/
The sarcasm that had moments ago underlined Shipra's words began to dissolve, melting under the weight of Namrata’s voice still echoing in the corners of her mind. “Don’t argue. Don’t try to explain. Just give him what he wants to hear.” But doing that was easier said than done.
Her voice dropped—not in defeat, but in a weary, quiet resignation. The kind of tone that grows from months of holding things in, from a thousand unsaid things folded into the corners of her day-to-day. She wasn't ready to surrender, but she was too drained to keep fighting.
“Look, Alok... I don’t want to fight either.” Her voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges that had once protected her. “I get what you’re trying to say. And maybe you’re right... maybe, I have changed. I haven’t been myself lately.”
She paused, eyes flickering away as she pulled in a breath—not to calm herself, but to summon the courage to say what followed. Her tone grew slower, measured, the words chosen carefully, painfully.
“I’m just tired, Alok.” She said it with a helpless smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Tired of acting strong all the time. Tired of carrying everything on my shoulders without ever showing the cracks. The rural posting is tough, the workload is relentless, and I feel like I’m losing pieces of myself trying to hold everything together. I'm far from home, far from the things that make me feel grounded. And in all that... I have been missing being with my son, with you. More than I thought I would.”
She looked at him again, her voice growing thinner, the restraint beginning to tremble.
“I’m not complaining. I know I have to bear this responsibility. Neither am I blaming you. I know your path hasn’t been easy either. I stood by you, remember? When you left your job, when you said you needed time, I said okay. I didn’t question it. Not even once. Even when your mother did. I just... hoped that when I came home, I’d feel that we were still on the same side.”
She took a step closer, but something invisible still stood between them.
“Can’t we forget this stupid argument and just meet halfway? Like we used to, without keeping score?”
There was no venom. No accusation. Just a quiet plea dressed in vulnerability. The kind of raw honesty that hurts more than it heals.
“Are you getting what I’m trying to say?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes shimmered—not from the raw emotion she longed to release, but from the sheer effort of holding it all back. It wasn’t sadness that welled up—it was restraint.
She didn’t expect Alok to understand. Not fully. Maybe not even at all. But still, a part of her—quiet, stubborn, and aching—wanted to try one last time. To say just enough to awaken the man she once fell in love with. The man who used to listen, who used to see her.
Even if only to silence the voice inside her head—“Don’t ruin it. Don’t push him. Say what he wants to hear. Keep the peace.”
And so, she stood there. Somewhere between pretending and confessing, between caring and detaching. Trying to end the conversation, not for resolution, but for survival.
“It’s just a matter of a few more months, Shipra,” Alok said, his voice calm, trying to sound reassuring. “I get it—it’s not easy. And I know it hasn’t been fair to you. But you have to understand, behaving like this... at this point, when everything is riding on these next few months—it doesn’t help me.”
He paused, gauging her expression, hoping to find some sign of agreement.
“And it’s not just about your mood. The way you acted, and reacted last—” Alok began, almost relieved to finally bring up the simmering discomfort that had clung to him since the night before, but Shipra raised a hand gently, cutting him off with a composed firmness.
“It’s okay, Alok.” Her voice was soft, almost too calm—like a still lake right before a storm. “I’ve realised my mistake.” The words felt foreign in her mouth, but they flowed effortlessly, rehearsed in her mind ever since Namrata’s warning.
“You’re right—this is a critical time for you and I won’t push you. Not until you achieve your goal. I’ll give it a few more months, and hopefully... once my rural tenure is over, things will find their way back on track.”
She let out a long breath—not just of resignation, but of quiet surrender. Not to him, but to her current situation.
Her eyes didn’t linger on him. Instead, she straightened up, offered a polite, practiced smile, “You must be exhausted. Go freshen up, and I’ll set up dinner. We can talk more later tonight, in bed.”
Alok hadn’t said everything he wanted to. The discomfort that had been gnawing at him still lingered, unspoken and unresolved. But seeing Shipra calm, accommodating—even willing to adjust—was enough to ease his mind for now. Her return to “normal” felt like stability, and that was all he craved in this crucial stretch of his journey.
He mistook her silence for understanding, her softness for support. And so, he let it be.
Meanwhile, Shipra quietly buried the urge to open her heart, to voice the pain that had been building inside her for months. She watched Alok retreat once again into the safety of his dreams, oblivious to the slow erosion of their bond. He didn’t see her restraint. He didn’t hear the ache behind her words. And he didn’t recognise the silence not as peace—but as her last, exhausted cry for a sliver of empathy.
All she had wanted was to be heard. To be seen. Not as a distraction to be managed, but as a woman unravelling inside.
***********************************************
"Don’t get too smart with me, Patode," the MLA growled, his voice cold, razor-sharp, and simmering with restrained fury. "I may not be educated, but I’ve survived and thrived through more power struggles than you can imagine. I’ve clawed my way up from the dirt, long before you were even learning to navigate the dirty backchannels of politics."
He paused, letting the silence bite, then continued with a tone dipped in quiet menace. "You think I got to this seat by playing fair? I’ve seen snakes like you slither and fall a hundred times. So don’t fuck with me. I need only one thing from you right now—assurance. I want to hear it from your lips that your recklessness in Ambruj won’t cost me the goddamn election. That’s all that matters to me. Nothing else."
On the other end of the call, Patode remained calm, his voice steady, almost nonchalant.
"You won’t lose, Bhau," he said, addressing the MLA with the local term of respect, but without a trace of fear. "In fact, with that lunatic Saad finally out of the picture, you’ll win this one by a landslide. I give you, my word. The people of Ambruj were sick of his chaos—his dramatics, his defiance, his unpredictability. They wanted change. Stability."
A beat passed.
"And I’m that stability now," Patode added, a subtle note of ambition laced in his assurance. "You can trust me to keep the business here running smooth. No more surprises."
There was a heavy silence on the other end before the MLA finally spoke, his tone cold and calculated. “We’ll see about that. And don’t mistake my silence for forgiveness, Patode. I’m only letting this slide because the elections are breathing down our necks. You're on thin ice. One wrong move—just one more surprise—and your fate will make Saad’s look like a mercy killing.”
The line went dead.
Patode stared at the screen for a second, jaw clenched, before slipping the phone into his pocket with a bitter laugh.
“Bloody son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. "Just you wait you old fucker, like Saad I'll have your seat one day too." He continued with a smirk as he walked. "Let's go bahadur, take me to Saad's place. It's time to take control of things."
***********************************************
"You cannot do that!” Salim’s voice rose sharply, the calm mask cracking as anger surged through. “This will cause a huge monetary loss to my business, madam! I’ve just opened that dhaba—it’s brand new. I can’t just shut it down over some murder I have nothing to do with!”
Shrutika leaned back in her chair, letting the outburst hang in the air for a moment before responding. When she did, her voice was firm, low, and devoid of any sympathy.
“Calm down, Mr. Salim,” she said, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade. “This isn’t your office, and I’m not one of your workers you can bully into silence. This is a murder investigation and I’m simply following procedure. A murder took place on your premises, it's a crime scene now and until we’re certain of what happened and who’s involved, your Dhaba will remain sealed.”
She stood up slowly, closing the distance between them, she perched atop the desk, her eyes locked onto his with unflinching authority. “And as far as your involvement goes—if you truly have nothing to hide, then you have no reason to be afraid. Co-operate with us. Once we have a lead, and your name is cleared, you’ll be free to reopen and carry on as usual. Until then, don’t test my patience. Am I clear?”
The intensity in her gaze bore down on Salim. He hesitated for a moment, then slumped back into the chair, still fuming but visibly shaken. His voice, though lower, carried a warning edge.
“You may be new here, SHO madam, but don’t forget—I’m a well-renowned man in the Ambruj district. This… this isn’t over. You’ll be hearing from me again.” He rose, adjusting the cuff of his kurta as he spoke. “Now, unless I’m under arrest, I believe I can take my leave?”
Shrutika didn’t blink. Her face was unreadable, but her mind was already running calculations. He hadn’t said much—but his defensiveness, his agitation, his eagerness to walk out—they said enough.
“You may go for now, Mr. Salim,” she said evenly, “and yes as you said this isn't over. We’ll be in touch. I expect your full cooperation if and when you're called again.”
Salim didn’t respond. He turned on his heel and walked out, his sandals slapping hard against the tiled floor as if trying to stamp out the humiliation.
Chetan, who had been silently observing the exchange from the adjacent chair, rose to follow his boss.
“Where do you think you're going, Chetan,” Shrutika said, her voice halting him mid-step. “You stay put. I have more questions for you—and I suggest you answer them carefully.”
Chetan sat back down slowly, suddenly aware of how loud his heartbeat had become. The room, still charged from the confrontation, now shifted its weight entirely onto him.
***********************************************
“Oh man, that was intense,” Alok exhaled, his voice breathless as he collapsed onto the bed beside Shipra. A sheen of sweat glistened on his chest, his body spent and satisfied. “Make-up sex is always the best, don’t you think? I’m glad we sorted out that little spat.”
Shipra offered a faint smile, more out of habit than agreement. “Yeah... me too,” she murmured, pulling the blanket up to her chin as she turned slightly away from him.
But her mind wasn’t there—not really. She wasn’t basking in the afterglow, nor comforted by the supposed reconciliation. A part of her floated above it all, detached, just playing the role of a perfect partner.
Tonight, unlike the night before, she didn’t try to push Alok to reclaim her. She didn’t coax herself to feel the same connection, she felt in the early days of her marriage or before her affair with Patode. There was no effort to match Alok’s rhythm or sync her breath with his. And yet, her body responded—not to him, but to the vivid recollection of something far more primal, far more consuming.
She moaned, yes—but it wasn’t Alok who stirred that sound from her lips. It wasn’t his touch that sent waves of heat rushing through her. Her arousal rose not from the man beside her, but from the memory of another man, another night, another place—one far removed from this quiet bedroom and the careful, measured love of a husband.
In her mind, she wasn’t under Alok’s familiar weight. She was elsewhere—back in Ambruj, where the air was thick with secrecy and the taste of forbidden sin still lingered on her skin. There, passion didn’t arrive politely. It devoured. There, she wasn’t a wife holding herself together—she was a woman unchained, consumed by a hunger that left no room for hesitation or guilt.
Even as Alok moved inside her, even as his hands searched her skin, her thoughts betrayed her. They returned, uninvited and uncontrollable, to Patode. She recalled the way Patode’s hands gripped her hips with unrelenting need, the bruising intensity of every thrust, the lustful hunger in his eyes, the desperate rhythm of bodies crashing in a frenzy that felt almost feral. There had been no space for thought, only sensation—raw, urgent, and thrilling in its recklessness. The danger of it. The sheer wrongness of it. It all merged into an intoxicating storm that still echoed in her bones.
She remembered the sound of her voice then—nothing like the stifled sighs she gave Alok now. It had been wild, guttural, torn from the depths of her being. There had been no performance, no pretending. Her back had arched then not because she was expected to, but because her body demanded it. Because Patode didn’t ask for permission—he took. And she gave. Willingly. Desperately.
He hadn’t just held her. He had consumed her. Taken her apart piece by piece and rebuilt her into something raw and aching. And in those moments, she had come alive in ways she never thought possible.
That was where her mind fled now.
Not to this bed, not to this man who still clung to the idea of her, blind to what she had become. But to that room of sin and sweat, where nothing was sacred and everything was real.
That was where she still felt something. That was where she remembered who she was beneath the wife, beneath the silence, beneath the restraint.
Alok finally groaned—deep and guttural—as his climax surged through him, his body stiffening, then collapsing against hers with a weightless sigh of satisfaction. His breath caught in his throat, teeth gritted as he cummed inside her, completely consumed by the blinding rush of his own release.
Fuckkkk…
A small, broken sound escaped Shipra’s lips—a whimper so soft that Alok mistook it for pleasure, his ego swelling at the thought of having satisfied her. But for Shipra, it was something else entirely. A cry of frustration, of hollow emptiness, of being so achingly close to something real and yet impossibly far.
She simply closed her eyes and disappeared again into the memory of the one who made her feel.
Turning to her side, Shipra pulled the blanket over her shoulder, as if its weight could muffle the craving that still pulsed through her. She had hoped the act would quiet the ache, would momentarily satisfy her, but instead it only deepened the void. Having tasted the raw edge of pleasure, her body now recognized the difference—between passion and duty, between indulgence and routine.
And in that haunting contrast, something inside her cracked a little more.
A dull throb stirred between her legs—not from Alok’s efforts, but from a hunger that had gone untouched, unresolved. It wasn’t just a physical need—it was a memory etched into her very nerve endings. She tried to silence it, to remind herself of who she was with, but the images came anyway—unrelenting, vivid.
Patode's energy haunted her like a phantom lover. The way his fingers brushed her hips, the way he bit her shoulder just enough to make her gasp, the way he spoke to her—commanded, dominated and humiliated her. Her nipples tingled at the thought, desperate for the pinch that always pushed her over the edge. Her thighs clenched, a subconscious plea for something rougher, wilder. Beneath the covers, she bit her lip, her hand drifting unconsciously toward her heat—an instinct, not a decision.
But just as her fingers brushed over her own skin, a voice shattered the haze.
"Shipra, why do I keep hearing this Patode fellow’s name so often? What’s up with that?"
Alok’s voice, clear and pointed, cut through the fog in her mind like a blade. Her breath hitched. Her body froze. The desire that moments ago had swelled inside her now drained away, replaced by an icy tension. Slowly, she pulled her hand back and let it rest, still, under the blanket.
"What do you mean, Alok?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, carefully neutral. She didn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t.
"I don’t know," Alok said after a pause, his tone casual, but laced with something sharper underneath. Suspicion. "The way Namrata mentioned him today… and even before that when you both were in Ambruj. His name just keeps popping up. And from what it sounds like, his involvement with you guys seems a little... I don’t know... a little too friendly."
Shipra swallowed hard; her mouth suddenly dry. Her heart thudded once against her ribcage, then stilled. She had known this moment would arrive eventually. But not like this. Not so soon. Not in the middle of her silent unravelling.
Still, she didn’t hesitate. Her response had been rehearsed multiple times in her mind, polished until it gleamed with just the right balance of calm and calculated innocence.
“There’s nothing of that sort, Alok,” she said smoothly, her voice even, practiced as she turned towards Alok. “You know how Namrata is—flirtatious by nature. She flirts like that with Patode too. It’s just her way.”
She paused, letting her words settle before continuing, slipping into her role with precision.
“As for me and him… he’s just a colleague. A helping hand at the office, nothing more.”
But then her tone shifted, just slightly—like silk catching on something sharp.
A subtle warmth crept in, laced with something darker.
“That said, he is quite skilled… and has an impressively deep reach.”
Her lips twitched a little at the corner. She didn’t break eye contact, even as the weight of her words lingered in the air, their double meaning unmistakable. She let it hang there, just long enough to draw blood beneath the surface.
“In sourcing business for the branch, I mean,” she added, her tone lightly teasing now. “So his involvement is unavoidable. You’ll probably keep hearing about him from time to time.”
Her gaze held Alok’s a second longer before she delivered the final blow with practiced ease.
“But you don’t need to worry. It’s strictly professional. Just a mutually beneficial arrangement until my tenure ends. He fulfils my needs, and I… allow him to operate freely. Without restrictions.”
A smirk curved her lips—sharp, deliberate.
Every word had been measured, dipped in honey and laced with venom.
It was her quiet rebellion. Her way of venting out her anger against Alok.
And Alok, still wrapped in the hazy afterglow of release, nodded slowly. His mind, dulled by pleasure, tried to process her words—but they slipped through the cracks like sand. There was something in her tone he couldn’t quite place. Something that didn’t sit right. A tease? A joke? A warning?
He couldn’t tell.
"Let’s sleep now,” Shipra said softly, placing a gentle hand on his chest. Her touch was tender, almost affectionate—habitual, not heartfelt. “You have your coaching in the morning, and I need to start packing for my return.”
She leaned in and brushed a kiss against his cheek—light, precise, distant. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned away from him, pulling the sheet over herself as she shifted to the edge of the bed. Her back, now a quiet wall between them, seemed to close a door he hadn’t realized was even open.
“Good night,” she said, her voice low, final.
And just like that, she was gone—curled away from him, eyes closed, already somewhere far beyond his reach.
Alok stared at the ceiling for a long moment, her words replaying in fragments:
Skilled… deep reach… fulfils my needs… no restrictions…
Each phrase echoed with a weight he couldn't ignore. They sounded innocuous on the surface—professional, logical—but something about the way she said them, that flicker of something in her eyes, had lodged a splinter in his mind.
He rolled onto his back, blinking into the dimness of the room, questions piling up in the space she’d left behind.
She had told him not to worry.
But now, he couldn’t stop.
***********************************************
“Don’t worry, Salim bhai,” Patode said coolly, swirling the whisky in his glass before taking a slow sip. The clink of ice was the only sound in the room for a moment. “I’ll have your dhaba reopened in no time. With the MLA’s blessings, I’ve already begun yakking over things. This little hiccup with that new SHO—she’s just a temporary nuisance. Nothing we can’t handle.”
Salim didn’t share the same confidence. He leaned forward in his chair, worry etched deep into the lines on his face, his voice tight with concern. “I’m not worried about when it reopens, Patode. It’s what’s inside that Dhaba that’s making my chest heavy. That new SHO… she’s sharp. Not like the gullible ones we’re used to—she’s smart and active. If she gets access to that desktop in my office—my personal files, my accounts, contacts… the videos.....we’re both screwed.”
Patode smirked and waved dismissively, like brushing away a fly.
“Salim bhai, if the Indian security officer were half as efficient as you’re giving them credit for, we’d have been rotting behind bars years ago. Don’t lose sleep over it. That greenhorn will soon be overwhelmed with pressure, and in a couple of weeks, this whole thing will be buried under election noise. Saad Hasan was a criminal, not a martyr. Sure, his followers will cry foul, there’ll be a few slogans, maybe even a rally or two—but it’ll pass. The MLA will make sure of it. She’ll be moved, transferred, or get used to the work culture here. And you, my friend, will be back to your chicken curry and black books.”
Salim remained tense, drawing deep on his cigarette, the orange ember flaring in the dimly lit room.
“But what if she gets to Bhiva?” he asked quietly. “He's a loose end. He knows too much. He’s the one link between Saad, the hit, and… you.”
Patode chuckled, a low, confident sound, almost amused by the idea. He leaned forward slowly, his expression shifting from casual arrogance to cold calculation.
“Salim bhai,” he said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I orchestrated the fall of Saad Hasan—Ambruj’s so-called don. You think it’ll take me more than a minute to silence a rat like Bhiva? One whispered tip to Saad’s bloodthirsty disciples, a hint that Bhiva was the real betrayer, and they’ll do the job for me. No blood on my hands, no trail back to us. All loose ends tied, neatly and permanently.”
The room grew quiet again. Salim’s shoulders slackened, the tension giving way to resignation. He sank into his chair, blowing out a slow plume of smoke.
“You’re even more dangerous than that bastard Saad,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Sometimes I wonder if getting mixed up in this madness with you was worth it.”
Patode’s smile returned, relaxed and confident, as he leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.
“Don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “I’ll make it worth your while. One of those sluts is returning tomorrow—the married one with the fire. This time around I'll break her. Tame her completely. Then she’s yours. Squeeze every paisa’s worth out of her.”
He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Until then, enjoy the digital entertainment I’ve been feeding you. Will send you a new video tomorrow evening. High quality. Totally wild and hot.”
Patode winked, the gesture lewd and laced with depravity, before downing the rest of his drink in one smooth gulp, slamming the glass back onto the table with a clink.
Across from him, Salim exhaled a lungful of smoke, the earlier tension now replaced with an unsettling ease. Patode’s confidence was infectious—his ruthlessness, even more so. The idea of the “show” stirred something primal in Salim. A wicked grin twisted across his face, his eyes sharpening with a gleam of dark excitement. Leaning forward slightly, his voice lowered, oozing depravity, he murmured, “Why don’t you make some arrangement… so I can see it all happen? Live. With my own eyes. That would be so much hotter, Patode.”
Salim was testing the waters, using the leverage he had, seeing how far Patode was willing to go, and how much sin he was willing to share.
Patode didn’t blink. Instead, his lips curled subtly, a glint flashing through his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the armrest, as if weighing the implications of what had just been proposed. Then, with a tone disturbingly casual, he replied, “I don’t see why that cannot be arranged.” He let the sentence hang in the air for a second too long, then added, “In fact… I’ve been thinking of pushing her further. Testing her limits.”
He paused deliberately, locking eyes with Salim before continuing, “This could be the perfect step toward something bigger. Toward sharing her, towards degrading her beyond reconciliation.”
The suggestion was laced with a sinister undertone, yet delivered like a business offer. It was a masterstroke—one that not only fed Salim’s twisted desires but also subtly reminded him who held the reins. In that moment, Salim forgot about the mess he was in. All he could think about now was the spectacle, and his front-row seat to it.
The two men sat there, the silence thick with indulgence, the room reeking of whisky, tobacco, and the kind of moral rot that festers behind closed doors. Outside, the distant sound of traffic and temple bells echoed faintly—life going on, unaware, uninterested.
And inside, Patode and Salim celebrated not just the death of Saad Hasan, but their own brutal ascent. They were drunk—not just on liquor, but on power, greed, and lust. No remorse. No fear. Just the satisfaction of two predators circling the throne left behind by another fallen beast.
***********************************************
Continued to the next post...
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