Yesterday, 02:42 PM
The next morning, the storm reached Kabul—but not from the skies.
Faisal arrived.
By noon, Qadir was summoned to the estate on the outskirts of the city. No entourage. No optics. Just Faisal in his office—cool, crisp, silent. His black shirt was rolled to the sleeves, his watch gleaming against his wrist, his expression unreadable.
“You compromised her,” he said coldly, staring straight into Qadir’s eyes. “You let it happen.”
Qadir stood motionless. “I handled it.”
“No, you didn’t. I did. With a single call. After you let her get dragged into the dirt like a hostage.”
Qadir’s jaw tightened. “It was one moment. One slip.”
“One moment,” Faisal repeated, rising from behind his desk. “One moment away from her being violated. Publicly. While under my protection.”
He leaned closer. “You don’t make mistakes with what belongs to me, Qadir. Not with her.”
The words cut. But Qadir said nothing.
Faisal turned away, looked out the window for a long moment, then spoke again.
“She’s too exposed here. I’ll take her back to Dubai. She’ll work directly under me. Office postings. Safe environments. Controlled spaces.”
“You think she’ll go?” Qadir asked, almost bitterly.
“She will,” Faisal replied.
That evening, Faisal met Rashi privately in a secured guest suite. He was calm, composed, dressed in a crisp tailored suit. There was no trace of the man who had threatened war with a phone call less than 24 hours earlier.
“You did good out there,” he said simply, handing her a small envelope.
Inside was a formal job offer.
Senior Liaison – Dubai Office. Faisal’s personal oversight.
“I want you closer,” he said. “Where I can watch you. Properly.”
Rashi looked up, searching his face. “And control me?”
He smiled faintly. “No. But I don’t trust anyone else to try.”
She nodded slowly, her voice even. “I’ll talk to my husband.”
“Of course,” he said, standing. “But we both know you’ve already decided.”
That night, Rashi sat across from Amit at dinner.
He was tired, relaxed, laughing about something that had happened at the embassy. She watched him quietly for a while before speaking.
“I’ve been offered something,” she said. “A position. In Dubai.”
He blinked. “Who offered it?”
“Faisal.”
Amit sat up straighter. “That’s… big.”
“He wants me to manage the women’s division. Directly from his office.”
“And you want this?”
Rashi stirred her soup slowly. “I think it’s time.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “We’ll make it work.”
Rashi smiled faintly. “I’ll go ahead first, travel back on weekends. You should also try to join me soon, talk for a transfer please.”
Amit reached across the table and touched her hand.
And for the first time in days, she didn’t flinch.
But somewhere deep inside, she knew this was the beginning of the next transformation.
Rashi wasn’t just going to Dubai.
She was stepping into the center of the storm.
And this time, she would walk into it with her eyes open.
Dubai was everything Kabul wasn’t—clean, glittering, fast, and quiet in the way power operates when it no longer needs to raise its voice.
Rashi's new apartment was on the 33rd floor of a serviced tower in the Marina, overlooking the water, the skyline lit like a futuristic dream. A black car picked her up every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. She didn’t ask where it came from. She knew Faisal was behind every arrangement, every keycard, every glass wall in her new corner office.
Monday to Friday, she lived in Dubai.
Weekends, she returned to Kabul. To Amit. To the polite fiction of marriage.
But it was here—in this high-rise office, in the silence between meetings and the echo of her heels on marble—that Rashi truly began to vanish from her old life.
Faisal did not hover. He rarely interrupted her work. But when he wanted her—he let her know.
A message from his assistant: “The Sheikh would like you in his suite after 7.”
A folded note left on her desk: “No meetings tomorrow morning. Stay the night.”
Sometimes it was direct. Sometimes, he simply walked into her office at the end of the day, closed the door behind him, and said nothing as he removed his jacket.
It was never tender. It was never sweet.
But it was never forced either.
Rashi didn’t resist.
She bent. She obeyed. She undressed herself when he looked at her that way.
During the day, she reviewed reports, led community funding strategy calls, managed media coverage for the women’s programs.
At night, she was pressed into expensive sheets with her wrists pinned above her, Faisal’s mouth at her ear, reminding her that the only power she truly held was the power he allowed her to enjoy.
And still, she came back every time.
By Thursday evenings, her body was aching. By Friday afternoons, her skin carried faint traces of his teeth, the scent of his cologne clinging to her thighs even after two showers. She’d board the flight to Kabul with perfect posture and a small suitcase, playing the part of the devoted wife returning for the weekend.
Amit never asked much. He believed she was changing the world. He had no idea the shape it was taking inside her. Dubai had not freed her. It had claimed her. And she had let it.
One Thursday Evening
The door clicked softly behind her. Faisal's penthouse was quiet, lights dimmed, city lights flickering beyond the glass walls like scattered diamonds. Rashi stepped in, heels clicking lightly on the marble. She was still in her work clothes—a fitted cream blouse, long slate skirt, a gold pin holding her hair up with precision. She didn’t need to announce herself. He already knew she was coming.
He was at the minibar, pouring something into two tumblers—his jacket off, sleeves rolled, neck slightly open. The control in his posture was still present, but the edge had softened. This was his domain, and here, he didn’t need to pretend to be anything less than sovereign.
“You’re late,” he said, turning toward her, offering a glass.
She took it, stepping closer. “I had to finish with the UN reps. They wanted to add five villages to the maternal health program.”
He nodded. “Ambitious.”
“They believe in what we’re doing,” she said, taking a sip. “Or maybe they believe in how I explain it.”
Faisal smirked slightly. “You do have a way of making people feel… inspired.”
He stepped toward her and paused, studying her face.
“You’ve changed since Kabul.”
“How so?”
“You walk like power belongs to you.”
She smiled. “And here I thought that belonged to you.”
He set his glass down. “Power can be shared. Under the right arrangement.”
They stood like that for a moment—silent, but far from still.
Then he reached for her hand.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
She followed. In the lounge, he sank into a leather chair, tugging her gently into his lap. She settled across him with practiced ease, her legs curling beneath her, skirt pulling tight across her thighs.
“Tell me,” he said, his hand resting on her hip. “Do you look forward to this part of the evening?”
She met his gaze directly. “You know I do.”
“What exactly do you look forward to?”
She smiled faintly, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “The quiet. The way you don’t ask permission. The way my body forgets everything else.”
He let out a soft breath, his hand sliding higher. “That’s not an answer.”
Rashi’s eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up. “I look forward to the feeling of being wanted… with no softness. No hesitation. When you touch me like I’m yours for the hour, not for a lifetime.”
Faisal exhaled slowly, voice lower now. “And the orgasm?”
She laughed gently against his neck. “That too. When it’s earned.”
“I give you what he can’t.”
“You don’t even pretend to love me.”
“I don’t need to,” he said. “Your body doesn’t want love. It wants surrender.”
She leaned in, whispering near his ear, “And what do you want?”
He didn’t answer right away. He slid his hand beneath her blouse, his palm warm against her bare waist. Her body pressed closer, breath catching.
“I want the version of you that no one else gets to see. The one that waits all week to fall apart.”
Rashi looked at him, the knot of tension she wore every day loosening thread by thread. “She’s here,” she whispered. “She’s always here when you ask”.
Faisal stood, eyes never leaving her as he took her hand and led her from the lounge into the bedroom.
The space was minimalist—warm tones, soft lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the Dubai skyline into the room like a dream. But tonight, the only thing Rashi saw clearly was him.
He paused at the edge of the bed and turned toward her. “You carry the whole week in your shoulders,” he said, brushing a finger lightly over the side of her neck. “You forget how to let go.”
“I never forget,” she whispered. “I just save it… for here.”
Her voice was steady, but inside, her body was already heating beneath the surface, skin anticipating touch before it arrived.
Faisal reached for her blouse and slowly undid the first button. Then the second.
He didn’t rush.
With every small movement, his knuckles brushed her skin, drawing goosebumps across her chest. When the last button came free, he slipped the blouse off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind her.
“You hide behind fine fabrics and power meetings,” he murmured, tracing the edge of her bra with his thumb. “But underneath it all…”
“I’m yours,” she said quietly, finishing it for him.
His eyes darkened, and without a word, he leaned in and kissed her—not with aggression, but with purpose. He tasted her mouth slowly, one hand on the small of her back, the other sliding up to cup her jaw.
Rashi sighed into the kiss, her body softening against him. She reached up to unfasten his shirt, fingers working quickly. When she pushed it off his shoulders, she let her palms wander over the smooth, hard lines of his chest. The contrast between them—the elegance of her body and the raw strength of his—was something they both felt every time they touched.
Faisal walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat, and he knelt down, removing her shoes, then easing her skirt down over her hips.
By the time she lay back, he was already trailing kisses down her stomach, pausing at her hip, his stubble grazing her skin, drawing a sharp inhale from her lips.
“You’re always in control out there,” he murmured, eyes locking with hers. “But here, you give it up so easily.”
“Because you know how to take it,” she replied, breath catching.
He kissed her inner thigh, slowly, reverently. “Then tonight, I’ll take everything.”
Time lost meaning.
Faisal didn’t rush. He knew her body now—every sound she made, every place she arched, every whisper of “don’t stop” when she forgot to keep her voice steady. He worshipped her not with flattery, but with expertise. She gave herself over, moaning into his shoulder, clutching the sheets when she couldn’t speak.
When she came, her nails raked his back, her mouth open in silent release.
He stayed inside her, watching her face as she fell apart.
She looked radiant, undone.
And in that moment, there was no diplomacy. No dual life. No lies.
Just this: her body in his hands, trembling from something only he could give her.
Later, when the city lights had dimmed and the only sounds were the soft hum of the air and the distant echo of her moans long since silenced, Rashi lay tangled in his sheets, his arm wrapped loosely around her waist.
She wasn’t thinking about Kabul. Not about work. Not about Amit. Only about the man beside her. The one who never gave her flowers, but always gave her release.
And she already knew: she would show up again next Monday. On time.
Because the orgasm was never just pleasure—it was her confession and duty towards her body.
As usual she was returning to Kabul for the weekend. The flight touched down just after sunset. Rashi looked out of the window, the lights of Kabul hazy in the distance, and felt that familiar ache in her chest. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t love. It was weight—the kind that came from pretending too well for too long.
She had spent the last five days in Faisal’s orbit—her body still remembered his touch. Her skin held faint marks beneath her blouse. And yet, now she was here, preparing to be Amit’s wife again.
He was waiting outside the airport, smiling like he always did—relieved, proud, happy to see her.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he took her bag. “Tired, but glowing.”
Rashi smiled, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “It was a long week.”
They had dinner in the living room—simple home food, just the two of them. Amit talked about embassy meetings, some new interns, and a minor protocol error that made him laugh. Rashi listened, sipping wine, nodding. Smiling.
Later, as they lay in bed, Amit ran a hand along her waist under the blanket.
“It’s nice to have you home,” he murmured.
She nodded, eyes closed.
He leaned in, kissed her neck, then her shoulder, slower, warmer.
“You’re different these days,” he whispered. “More confident. But also… distant.”
Rashi opened her eyes.
“I’m just busy,” she replied softly.
He pulled back enough to look at her.
After dinner in their bedroom He undressed slowly, more lovingly than usual, he touched her gently, his hands cautious, reverent. But Rashi’s body didn’t respond the way it should. Her mind wandered. Her thighs tensed.
She guided his cock inside her anyway.
He moved slowly, trying to please her, trying to draw a response not knowing that she likes pounding from a Stallion, not a soft caress from a weak man. She moaned softly—on purpose, fake, for Encouragement.
He whispered her name. Told her how beautiful she looked.
But within minutes, his breath hitched, rhythm faltered.
He came too soon.
And the silence after was too loud.
“I’m sorry,” he said, forehead against her shoulder, breath warm. “It’s just… the thought of you, of us… it was too much.”
Rashi wrapped her arms around him and held him close.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
But her body was aching still—for what it didn’t receive. For what she was used to now.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’re settled now. Stable. Maybe… we could think about expanding our family?”
Rashi blinked. Her heart stalled for just a second.
“You mean…”
“A baby,” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I think it’s time.”
She stared at the ceiling.
It wasn’t the idea of motherhood that startled her. It was the timing. The hypocrisy. The thought of carrying her husband’s child while her body still wanted an orgasm and remembered how Faisal made her cume against a glass wall two nights ago.
But she couldn’t say that.
So she smiled faintly.
“If that’s what you want,” she said quietly, “then… we can try.”
Amit beamed, kissed her deeply, and pulled her beneath him.
Later, as Amit slept, arm dbangd around her, Rashi stared at the ceiling again. The air was cool. Her thighs were damp.
She placed her hand on her belly, thinking of what it meant—this choice, this agreement.
To build something with Amit… while something else—something darker, deeper—thrived within her, in a city far away, behind Faisal’s locked doors.
She turned onto her side, closed her eyes. And waited for morning.
Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, a soft golden glow settling over the room. Rashi lay still for a moment, her eyes tracing the ceiling above, the sound of birds just outside the window mingling with the quiet hum of the city stirring to life.
Amit was still asleep beside her, his arm curled loosely over her waist, breath steady and even. His face looked younger in sleep—unguarded. Peaceful.
She turned carefully so as not to wake him, slipping out from under the covers. The floor was cool beneath her feet as she walked to the bathroom, tying her robe around her waist. The air smelled faintly of jasmine soap and cologne—the scent of a shared life, or at least the illusion of one.
She moved through the familiar motions: brushing her hair, rinsing her face, dabbing moisturizer on her cheeks.
And then she reached into the small wooden cabinet by the mirror.
The tiny blister pack lay there on the second shelf, nestled between a travel toothbrush and a tube of night cream.
She stared at it for a long second.
Her fingers hovered. Then dropped.
She shut the cabinet door without taking anything.
No fanfare. No commentary. Just silence—and the quiet weight of a decision not spoken aloud.
She returned to the bedroom, where Amit was still dreaming under the sheets. She sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, watching the way his chest rose and fell. The way his hand still reached for her in sleep.
They took a short walk through the quiet diplomatic district. Ate a simple lunch at a courtyard café. He held her hand while talking about a potential transfer posting in six months.
She nodded, said all the right things, smiled when she needed to. Played her part so well she almost believed it.
By Sunday night, her suitcase was packed again. Cream blouse folded precisely, laptop zipped in its own sleeve, discreet lingerie tucked between layers. Nothing out of place. Nothing traceable.
At dawn on Monday, she kissed Amit softly goodbye at the doorway.
“I’ll call you before bed,” she promised.
“You always do,” he smiled, sleep still in his eyes.
And just like that, she was gone again.
Dubai greeted her with dry heat and gleaming surfaces. Her driver met her at the airport, as always. She slid into the back seat and watched the skyline emerge as they crossed the bridge.
Her office waited. Her team. Her itinerary. A carefully laid-out week of meetings, reports, strategy briefs.
And Faisal.
The thought of him struck not like a bolt of lightning—but like a slow, deep current, running quietly under the surface. Steady. Certain.
She didn’t know if she would see him that night.
She didn’t need to.
It was only Monday.
There was a whole week ahead.
Slowly the weeks blurred.
Monday to Friday belonged to Faisal.
Rashi stopped counting days. Time in Dubai didn’t move in numbers—it pulsed in glances, touches, commands. She remembered her calendar by the way he had her the night before: whether it was her knees pressed to his office desk, her cheek against the cold glass of the window, or the edge of the marble bathtub she gripped with trembling fingers while he moved behind her, speaking only her name.
Faisal never gave her a schedule. He didn’t have to.
Sometimes it was after hours—wordless, intense, after a board meeting, when he’d gesture toward the private corridor outside his suite and she’d rise without question. Other times it was early mornings, her blouse barely buttoned, as he pulled her into his private elevator and lifted her skirt without even removing her heels.
Each time was different.
Sometimes he was slow, calculated—eyes fixed on hers, whispering what he liked about the shape of her back, the sound she made when he bit just below her collarbone.
Other times he used her like a secret, rough and deliberate, a fist tangled in her hair, her wrists pinned to the wall while he groaned low in her ear, “This is how I erase every thought of him.”
And every time—every single time—Rashi surrendered.
She told herself she still held control.
But the way her knees trembled afterward, the way she craved the next encounter before the current one even faded from her body—she knew she was lying.
Their encounters didn’t follow a pattern. That’s what kept them addictive.
Sometimes, he’d call her up late—well past midnight—when the city below had gone quiet and her apartment was shrouded in moonlight. Other times, it was in the middle of a workday, under the pretext of a “private strategy session” in his suite. She’d arrive with her tablet in hand, only to find him already loosening his tie, eyes dark with anticipation.
He liked to take control. And she liked to give it to him.
One evening, he bent her over the glass balcony, the city below unaware, his name whispered into the night like a prayer. Another time, in the backseat of his car, his hand gripped her thigh the moment the door shut, his instructions hushed but commanding. And sometimes, he took his time—laying her across silk sheets, removing each piece of her clothing like it was a ritual.
He learned her body the way a man studies a map—not just to explore, but to own.
And Rashi, in turn, learned to anticipate him. To ache for him. Her body, so long dormant under Amit’s tender but forgettable touch, came alive with every command Faisal gave her.
By the time two months had passed, it was no longer just an affair.
It was her second reality.
By Friday mornings, she’d fly to Kabul, perform the role of wife and daughter-in-law with practiced ease, attending embassy brunches, handling family matters, smiling beside Amit. He never doubted her.
And then, every Monday morning, she returned to the world where she truly breathed.
But now, her routine was about to break.
Late one Thursday evening, just as she was collecting her things in office, Rashi’s phone lit up with a message from her mother-in-law’s number.
She opened it.
A long text. Sent to the family group. Written in Hinglish. Flowery emojis. The kind she had grown used to smiling through.
“Pallavi ki shaadi fixed!! 3rd next month in Lucknow. Rashi you’re her favourite bhabhi, you need to come at least 1 month in advance.?”
Rashi exhaled slowly. Lucknow.
The old world.
Henna, gold, rooms filled with questions and cousins and relatives who asked too much.
She texted back a smiley face and a thumbs-up. Then paused.
She told Amit that night while folding laundry. He lit up.
“She always said she wanted you at her wedding,” he said, tucking a towel into the cupboard. “You’ll help her with the lehenga, right?”
“Of course,” Rashi said with a small smile. “I’ll take a few days off from Dubai.”
“You should,” he said, walking over and pressing a kiss to her temple. “You deserve to be with your people.”
She didn’t respond. Because her people were becoming harder to define.
The Friday before she was due to fly to Delhi, Faisal called her to his suite earlier than usual.
When she entered, he was already unfastening the buttons of his shirt, tossing his cufflinks onto the tray by the door. His movements were controlled. But there was something else beneath the surface—an edge in his silence.
“You’re leaving Monday,” he said.
“Yes. Just for more than 1 month.”
He studied her. “India.”
“My sister-in-law’s wedding.”
He stepped closer. “And Amit?”
She nodded. “He’ll join later”
His eyes scanned her body—not in lust, but in possession.
“You’ll wear red?” he asked.
She tilted her head. “For the wedding?”
“No,” he said quietly. “For me. Before you go.”
That night, he fucked her slowly. Deliberately. On silk sheets she hadn’t lain on before, in a different room of the suite. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It was memorized—etched into skin and scent and muscle.
As she rode him, hair loose over her shoulders, her hands on his chest, Faisal stared up at her as if committing her to memory.
When she climaxed, she whispered his name into his neck—not like a secret, but like a truth.
And afterward, as he lay beside her, watching the ceiling, he said:
“Don’t disappear over there.”
She turned her face toward him. “I won’t.”
It was late February when she boarded the flight to Delhi. Her sister-in-law’s wedding had been planned for months, and even Faisal had insisted she take time off.
“You need to go,” he’d said, adjusting his cufflinks without looking at her. “Play the daughter-in-law. Recharge. Then come back.”
She smiled and nodded, but something in her chest ached when he said then come back.
She hadn’t been away from him for more than four days at a time.
It was a mid-morning flight to Mumbai—her sister-in-law’s wedding was just days away. Rashi wore a soft beige travel kurta, her hair pulled back, lips lightly tinted. She had barely slept the night before—Faisal had kept her until after 2 a.m., and when she finally left his penthouse, her thighs were still sore from the hours they’d lost to each other.
She’d dozed through most of the boarding, head resting against the window, her hand resting on her stomach. But now, cruising at 30,000 feet, something stirred.
A queasyness. Subtle at first. Then unmistakable.
Her brow furrowed. She sat up, adjusted the air vent, took a sip of water.
But the nausea rolled again—slightly stronger.
Rashi’s fingers gripped the armrest as she breathed through it.
And then the thought landed.
Heavy.
Sudden.
She blinked.
When was the last time…?
Her hand dropped to her lap. Her mind raced.
The calendar in her planner. She had skipped it that first week back from Kabul. Blamed it on travel, then stress, then forgot to check. And the month had flown.
Then another.
Her eyes widened.
She hadn’t bled in over seven weeks.
Seven.
Her pulse quickened. Her stomach churned—not from nausea this time, but from realization.
Not now. Not here. Not like this.
She reached for her bag with a shaky hand, as if looking for something would calm her.
But nothing inside could answer the question forming like a storm behind her ribs.
She leaned back, eyes fixed on the seat in front of her. Somewhere in the clouds, reality cracked open.
What if…?
Her fingers slipped down to her belly. Still flat. Still unchanged.
But maybe… not for long.
Faisal arrived.
By noon, Qadir was summoned to the estate on the outskirts of the city. No entourage. No optics. Just Faisal in his office—cool, crisp, silent. His black shirt was rolled to the sleeves, his watch gleaming against his wrist, his expression unreadable.
“You compromised her,” he said coldly, staring straight into Qadir’s eyes. “You let it happen.”
Qadir stood motionless. “I handled it.”
“No, you didn’t. I did. With a single call. After you let her get dragged into the dirt like a hostage.”
Qadir’s jaw tightened. “It was one moment. One slip.”
“One moment,” Faisal repeated, rising from behind his desk. “One moment away from her being violated. Publicly. While under my protection.”
He leaned closer. “You don’t make mistakes with what belongs to me, Qadir. Not with her.”
The words cut. But Qadir said nothing.
Faisal turned away, looked out the window for a long moment, then spoke again.
“She’s too exposed here. I’ll take her back to Dubai. She’ll work directly under me. Office postings. Safe environments. Controlled spaces.”
“You think she’ll go?” Qadir asked, almost bitterly.
“She will,” Faisal replied.
That evening, Faisal met Rashi privately in a secured guest suite. He was calm, composed, dressed in a crisp tailored suit. There was no trace of the man who had threatened war with a phone call less than 24 hours earlier.
“You did good out there,” he said simply, handing her a small envelope.
Inside was a formal job offer.
Senior Liaison – Dubai Office. Faisal’s personal oversight.
“I want you closer,” he said. “Where I can watch you. Properly.”
Rashi looked up, searching his face. “And control me?”
He smiled faintly. “No. But I don’t trust anyone else to try.”
She nodded slowly, her voice even. “I’ll talk to my husband.”
“Of course,” he said, standing. “But we both know you’ve already decided.”
That night, Rashi sat across from Amit at dinner.
He was tired, relaxed, laughing about something that had happened at the embassy. She watched him quietly for a while before speaking.
“I’ve been offered something,” she said. “A position. In Dubai.”
He blinked. “Who offered it?”
“Faisal.”
Amit sat up straighter. “That’s… big.”
“He wants me to manage the women’s division. Directly from his office.”
“And you want this?”
Rashi stirred her soup slowly. “I think it’s time.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “We’ll make it work.”
Rashi smiled faintly. “I’ll go ahead first, travel back on weekends. You should also try to join me soon, talk for a transfer please.”
Amit reached across the table and touched her hand.
And for the first time in days, she didn’t flinch.
But somewhere deep inside, she knew this was the beginning of the next transformation.
Rashi wasn’t just going to Dubai.
She was stepping into the center of the storm.
And this time, she would walk into it with her eyes open.
Dubai was everything Kabul wasn’t—clean, glittering, fast, and quiet in the way power operates when it no longer needs to raise its voice.
Rashi's new apartment was on the 33rd floor of a serviced tower in the Marina, overlooking the water, the skyline lit like a futuristic dream. A black car picked her up every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. She didn’t ask where it came from. She knew Faisal was behind every arrangement, every keycard, every glass wall in her new corner office.
Monday to Friday, she lived in Dubai.
Weekends, she returned to Kabul. To Amit. To the polite fiction of marriage.
But it was here—in this high-rise office, in the silence between meetings and the echo of her heels on marble—that Rashi truly began to vanish from her old life.
Faisal did not hover. He rarely interrupted her work. But when he wanted her—he let her know.
A message from his assistant: “The Sheikh would like you in his suite after 7.”
A folded note left on her desk: “No meetings tomorrow morning. Stay the night.”
Sometimes it was direct. Sometimes, he simply walked into her office at the end of the day, closed the door behind him, and said nothing as he removed his jacket.
It was never tender. It was never sweet.
But it was never forced either.
Rashi didn’t resist.
She bent. She obeyed. She undressed herself when he looked at her that way.
During the day, she reviewed reports, led community funding strategy calls, managed media coverage for the women’s programs.
At night, she was pressed into expensive sheets with her wrists pinned above her, Faisal’s mouth at her ear, reminding her that the only power she truly held was the power he allowed her to enjoy.
And still, she came back every time.
By Thursday evenings, her body was aching. By Friday afternoons, her skin carried faint traces of his teeth, the scent of his cologne clinging to her thighs even after two showers. She’d board the flight to Kabul with perfect posture and a small suitcase, playing the part of the devoted wife returning for the weekend.
Amit never asked much. He believed she was changing the world. He had no idea the shape it was taking inside her. Dubai had not freed her. It had claimed her. And she had let it.
One Thursday Evening
The door clicked softly behind her. Faisal's penthouse was quiet, lights dimmed, city lights flickering beyond the glass walls like scattered diamonds. Rashi stepped in, heels clicking lightly on the marble. She was still in her work clothes—a fitted cream blouse, long slate skirt, a gold pin holding her hair up with precision. She didn’t need to announce herself. He already knew she was coming.
He was at the minibar, pouring something into two tumblers—his jacket off, sleeves rolled, neck slightly open. The control in his posture was still present, but the edge had softened. This was his domain, and here, he didn’t need to pretend to be anything less than sovereign.
“You’re late,” he said, turning toward her, offering a glass.
She took it, stepping closer. “I had to finish with the UN reps. They wanted to add five villages to the maternal health program.”
He nodded. “Ambitious.”
“They believe in what we’re doing,” she said, taking a sip. “Or maybe they believe in how I explain it.”
Faisal smirked slightly. “You do have a way of making people feel… inspired.”
He stepped toward her and paused, studying her face.
“You’ve changed since Kabul.”
“How so?”
“You walk like power belongs to you.”
She smiled. “And here I thought that belonged to you.”
He set his glass down. “Power can be shared. Under the right arrangement.”
They stood like that for a moment—silent, but far from still.
Then he reached for her hand.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
She followed. In the lounge, he sank into a leather chair, tugging her gently into his lap. She settled across him with practiced ease, her legs curling beneath her, skirt pulling tight across her thighs.
“Tell me,” he said, his hand resting on her hip. “Do you look forward to this part of the evening?”
She met his gaze directly. “You know I do.”
“What exactly do you look forward to?”
She smiled faintly, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “The quiet. The way you don’t ask permission. The way my body forgets everything else.”
He let out a soft breath, his hand sliding higher. “That’s not an answer.”
Rashi’s eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up. “I look forward to the feeling of being wanted… with no softness. No hesitation. When you touch me like I’m yours for the hour, not for a lifetime.”
Faisal exhaled slowly, voice lower now. “And the orgasm?”
She laughed gently against his neck. “That too. When it’s earned.”
“I give you what he can’t.”
“You don’t even pretend to love me.”
“I don’t need to,” he said. “Your body doesn’t want love. It wants surrender.”
She leaned in, whispering near his ear, “And what do you want?”
He didn’t answer right away. He slid his hand beneath her blouse, his palm warm against her bare waist. Her body pressed closer, breath catching.
“I want the version of you that no one else gets to see. The one that waits all week to fall apart.”
Rashi looked at him, the knot of tension she wore every day loosening thread by thread. “She’s here,” she whispered. “She’s always here when you ask”.
Faisal stood, eyes never leaving her as he took her hand and led her from the lounge into the bedroom.
The space was minimalist—warm tones, soft lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the Dubai skyline into the room like a dream. But tonight, the only thing Rashi saw clearly was him.
He paused at the edge of the bed and turned toward her. “You carry the whole week in your shoulders,” he said, brushing a finger lightly over the side of her neck. “You forget how to let go.”
“I never forget,” she whispered. “I just save it… for here.”
Her voice was steady, but inside, her body was already heating beneath the surface, skin anticipating touch before it arrived.
Faisal reached for her blouse and slowly undid the first button. Then the second.
He didn’t rush.
With every small movement, his knuckles brushed her skin, drawing goosebumps across her chest. When the last button came free, he slipped the blouse off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind her.
“You hide behind fine fabrics and power meetings,” he murmured, tracing the edge of her bra with his thumb. “But underneath it all…”
“I’m yours,” she said quietly, finishing it for him.
His eyes darkened, and without a word, he leaned in and kissed her—not with aggression, but with purpose. He tasted her mouth slowly, one hand on the small of her back, the other sliding up to cup her jaw.
Rashi sighed into the kiss, her body softening against him. She reached up to unfasten his shirt, fingers working quickly. When she pushed it off his shoulders, she let her palms wander over the smooth, hard lines of his chest. The contrast between them—the elegance of her body and the raw strength of his—was something they both felt every time they touched.
Faisal walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat, and he knelt down, removing her shoes, then easing her skirt down over her hips.
By the time she lay back, he was already trailing kisses down her stomach, pausing at her hip, his stubble grazing her skin, drawing a sharp inhale from her lips.
“You’re always in control out there,” he murmured, eyes locking with hers. “But here, you give it up so easily.”
“Because you know how to take it,” she replied, breath catching.
He kissed her inner thigh, slowly, reverently. “Then tonight, I’ll take everything.”
Time lost meaning.
Faisal didn’t rush. He knew her body now—every sound she made, every place she arched, every whisper of “don’t stop” when she forgot to keep her voice steady. He worshipped her not with flattery, but with expertise. She gave herself over, moaning into his shoulder, clutching the sheets when she couldn’t speak.
When she came, her nails raked his back, her mouth open in silent release.
He stayed inside her, watching her face as she fell apart.
She looked radiant, undone.
And in that moment, there was no diplomacy. No dual life. No lies.
Just this: her body in his hands, trembling from something only he could give her.
Later, when the city lights had dimmed and the only sounds were the soft hum of the air and the distant echo of her moans long since silenced, Rashi lay tangled in his sheets, his arm wrapped loosely around her waist.
She wasn’t thinking about Kabul. Not about work. Not about Amit. Only about the man beside her. The one who never gave her flowers, but always gave her release.
And she already knew: she would show up again next Monday. On time.
Because the orgasm was never just pleasure—it was her confession and duty towards her body.
As usual she was returning to Kabul for the weekend. The flight touched down just after sunset. Rashi looked out of the window, the lights of Kabul hazy in the distance, and felt that familiar ache in her chest. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t love. It was weight—the kind that came from pretending too well for too long.
She had spent the last five days in Faisal’s orbit—her body still remembered his touch. Her skin held faint marks beneath her blouse. And yet, now she was here, preparing to be Amit’s wife again.
He was waiting outside the airport, smiling like he always did—relieved, proud, happy to see her.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he took her bag. “Tired, but glowing.”
Rashi smiled, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “It was a long week.”
They had dinner in the living room—simple home food, just the two of them. Amit talked about embassy meetings, some new interns, and a minor protocol error that made him laugh. Rashi listened, sipping wine, nodding. Smiling.
Later, as they lay in bed, Amit ran a hand along her waist under the blanket.
“It’s nice to have you home,” he murmured.
She nodded, eyes closed.
He leaned in, kissed her neck, then her shoulder, slower, warmer.
“You’re different these days,” he whispered. “More confident. But also… distant.”
Rashi opened her eyes.
“I’m just busy,” she replied softly.
He pulled back enough to look at her.
After dinner in their bedroom He undressed slowly, more lovingly than usual, he touched her gently, his hands cautious, reverent. But Rashi’s body didn’t respond the way it should. Her mind wandered. Her thighs tensed.
She guided his cock inside her anyway.
He moved slowly, trying to please her, trying to draw a response not knowing that she likes pounding from a Stallion, not a soft caress from a weak man. She moaned softly—on purpose, fake, for Encouragement.
He whispered her name. Told her how beautiful she looked.
But within minutes, his breath hitched, rhythm faltered.
He came too soon.
And the silence after was too loud.
“I’m sorry,” he said, forehead against her shoulder, breath warm. “It’s just… the thought of you, of us… it was too much.”
Rashi wrapped her arms around him and held him close.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
But her body was aching still—for what it didn’t receive. For what she was used to now.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’re settled now. Stable. Maybe… we could think about expanding our family?”
Rashi blinked. Her heart stalled for just a second.
“You mean…”
“A baby,” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I think it’s time.”
She stared at the ceiling.
It wasn’t the idea of motherhood that startled her. It was the timing. The hypocrisy. The thought of carrying her husband’s child while her body still wanted an orgasm and remembered how Faisal made her cume against a glass wall two nights ago.
But she couldn’t say that.
So she smiled faintly.
“If that’s what you want,” she said quietly, “then… we can try.”
Amit beamed, kissed her deeply, and pulled her beneath him.
Later, as Amit slept, arm dbangd around her, Rashi stared at the ceiling again. The air was cool. Her thighs were damp.
She placed her hand on her belly, thinking of what it meant—this choice, this agreement.
To build something with Amit… while something else—something darker, deeper—thrived within her, in a city far away, behind Faisal’s locked doors.
She turned onto her side, closed her eyes. And waited for morning.
Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, a soft golden glow settling over the room. Rashi lay still for a moment, her eyes tracing the ceiling above, the sound of birds just outside the window mingling with the quiet hum of the city stirring to life.
Amit was still asleep beside her, his arm curled loosely over her waist, breath steady and even. His face looked younger in sleep—unguarded. Peaceful.
She turned carefully so as not to wake him, slipping out from under the covers. The floor was cool beneath her feet as she walked to the bathroom, tying her robe around her waist. The air smelled faintly of jasmine soap and cologne—the scent of a shared life, or at least the illusion of one.
She moved through the familiar motions: brushing her hair, rinsing her face, dabbing moisturizer on her cheeks.
And then she reached into the small wooden cabinet by the mirror.
The tiny blister pack lay there on the second shelf, nestled between a travel toothbrush and a tube of night cream.
She stared at it for a long second.
Her fingers hovered. Then dropped.
She shut the cabinet door without taking anything.
No fanfare. No commentary. Just silence—and the quiet weight of a decision not spoken aloud.
She returned to the bedroom, where Amit was still dreaming under the sheets. She sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, watching the way his chest rose and fell. The way his hand still reached for her in sleep.
They took a short walk through the quiet diplomatic district. Ate a simple lunch at a courtyard café. He held her hand while talking about a potential transfer posting in six months.
She nodded, said all the right things, smiled when she needed to. Played her part so well she almost believed it.
By Sunday night, her suitcase was packed again. Cream blouse folded precisely, laptop zipped in its own sleeve, discreet lingerie tucked between layers. Nothing out of place. Nothing traceable.
At dawn on Monday, she kissed Amit softly goodbye at the doorway.
“I’ll call you before bed,” she promised.
“You always do,” he smiled, sleep still in his eyes.
And just like that, she was gone again.
Dubai greeted her with dry heat and gleaming surfaces. Her driver met her at the airport, as always. She slid into the back seat and watched the skyline emerge as they crossed the bridge.
Her office waited. Her team. Her itinerary. A carefully laid-out week of meetings, reports, strategy briefs.
And Faisal.
The thought of him struck not like a bolt of lightning—but like a slow, deep current, running quietly under the surface. Steady. Certain.
She didn’t know if she would see him that night.
She didn’t need to.
It was only Monday.
There was a whole week ahead.
Slowly the weeks blurred.
Monday to Friday belonged to Faisal.
Rashi stopped counting days. Time in Dubai didn’t move in numbers—it pulsed in glances, touches, commands. She remembered her calendar by the way he had her the night before: whether it was her knees pressed to his office desk, her cheek against the cold glass of the window, or the edge of the marble bathtub she gripped with trembling fingers while he moved behind her, speaking only her name.
Faisal never gave her a schedule. He didn’t have to.
Sometimes it was after hours—wordless, intense, after a board meeting, when he’d gesture toward the private corridor outside his suite and she’d rise without question. Other times it was early mornings, her blouse barely buttoned, as he pulled her into his private elevator and lifted her skirt without even removing her heels.
Each time was different.
Sometimes he was slow, calculated—eyes fixed on hers, whispering what he liked about the shape of her back, the sound she made when he bit just below her collarbone.
Other times he used her like a secret, rough and deliberate, a fist tangled in her hair, her wrists pinned to the wall while he groaned low in her ear, “This is how I erase every thought of him.”
And every time—every single time—Rashi surrendered.
She told herself she still held control.
But the way her knees trembled afterward, the way she craved the next encounter before the current one even faded from her body—she knew she was lying.
Their encounters didn’t follow a pattern. That’s what kept them addictive.
Sometimes, he’d call her up late—well past midnight—when the city below had gone quiet and her apartment was shrouded in moonlight. Other times, it was in the middle of a workday, under the pretext of a “private strategy session” in his suite. She’d arrive with her tablet in hand, only to find him already loosening his tie, eyes dark with anticipation.
He liked to take control. And she liked to give it to him.
One evening, he bent her over the glass balcony, the city below unaware, his name whispered into the night like a prayer. Another time, in the backseat of his car, his hand gripped her thigh the moment the door shut, his instructions hushed but commanding. And sometimes, he took his time—laying her across silk sheets, removing each piece of her clothing like it was a ritual.
He learned her body the way a man studies a map—not just to explore, but to own.
And Rashi, in turn, learned to anticipate him. To ache for him. Her body, so long dormant under Amit’s tender but forgettable touch, came alive with every command Faisal gave her.
By the time two months had passed, it was no longer just an affair.
It was her second reality.
By Friday mornings, she’d fly to Kabul, perform the role of wife and daughter-in-law with practiced ease, attending embassy brunches, handling family matters, smiling beside Amit. He never doubted her.
And then, every Monday morning, she returned to the world where she truly breathed.
But now, her routine was about to break.
Late one Thursday evening, just as she was collecting her things in office, Rashi’s phone lit up with a message from her mother-in-law’s number.
She opened it.
A long text. Sent to the family group. Written in Hinglish. Flowery emojis. The kind she had grown used to smiling through.
“Pallavi ki shaadi fixed!! 3rd next month in Lucknow. Rashi you’re her favourite bhabhi, you need to come at least 1 month in advance.?”
Rashi exhaled slowly. Lucknow.
The old world.
Henna, gold, rooms filled with questions and cousins and relatives who asked too much.
She texted back a smiley face and a thumbs-up. Then paused.
She told Amit that night while folding laundry. He lit up.
“She always said she wanted you at her wedding,” he said, tucking a towel into the cupboard. “You’ll help her with the lehenga, right?”
“Of course,” Rashi said with a small smile. “I’ll take a few days off from Dubai.”
“You should,” he said, walking over and pressing a kiss to her temple. “You deserve to be with your people.”
She didn’t respond. Because her people were becoming harder to define.
The Friday before she was due to fly to Delhi, Faisal called her to his suite earlier than usual.
When she entered, he was already unfastening the buttons of his shirt, tossing his cufflinks onto the tray by the door. His movements were controlled. But there was something else beneath the surface—an edge in his silence.
“You’re leaving Monday,” he said.
“Yes. Just for more than 1 month.”
He studied her. “India.”
“My sister-in-law’s wedding.”
He stepped closer. “And Amit?”
She nodded. “He’ll join later”
His eyes scanned her body—not in lust, but in possession.
“You’ll wear red?” he asked.
She tilted her head. “For the wedding?”
“No,” he said quietly. “For me. Before you go.”
That night, he fucked her slowly. Deliberately. On silk sheets she hadn’t lain on before, in a different room of the suite. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It was memorized—etched into skin and scent and muscle.
As she rode him, hair loose over her shoulders, her hands on his chest, Faisal stared up at her as if committing her to memory.
When she climaxed, she whispered his name into his neck—not like a secret, but like a truth.
And afterward, as he lay beside her, watching the ceiling, he said:
“Don’t disappear over there.”
She turned her face toward him. “I won’t.”
It was late February when she boarded the flight to Delhi. Her sister-in-law’s wedding had been planned for months, and even Faisal had insisted she take time off.
“You need to go,” he’d said, adjusting his cufflinks without looking at her. “Play the daughter-in-law. Recharge. Then come back.”
She smiled and nodded, but something in her chest ached when he said then come back.
She hadn’t been away from him for more than four days at a time.
It was a mid-morning flight to Mumbai—her sister-in-law’s wedding was just days away. Rashi wore a soft beige travel kurta, her hair pulled back, lips lightly tinted. She had barely slept the night before—Faisal had kept her until after 2 a.m., and when she finally left his penthouse, her thighs were still sore from the hours they’d lost to each other.
She’d dozed through most of the boarding, head resting against the window, her hand resting on her stomach. But now, cruising at 30,000 feet, something stirred.
A queasyness. Subtle at first. Then unmistakable.
Her brow furrowed. She sat up, adjusted the air vent, took a sip of water.
But the nausea rolled again—slightly stronger.
Rashi’s fingers gripped the armrest as she breathed through it.
And then the thought landed.
Heavy.
Sudden.
She blinked.
When was the last time…?
Her hand dropped to her lap. Her mind raced.
The calendar in her planner. She had skipped it that first week back from Kabul. Blamed it on travel, then stress, then forgot to check. And the month had flown.
Then another.
Her eyes widened.
She hadn’t bled in over seven weeks.
Seven.
Her pulse quickened. Her stomach churned—not from nausea this time, but from realization.
Not now. Not here. Not like this.
She reached for her bag with a shaky hand, as if looking for something would calm her.
But nothing inside could answer the question forming like a storm behind her ribs.
She leaned back, eyes fixed on the seat in front of her. Somewhere in the clouds, reality cracked open.
What if…?
Her fingers slipped down to her belly. Still flat. Still unchanged.
But maybe… not for long.
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