Adultery Phantom Thread

[IronQuill]

A few days later


Tulip tossed her phone onto the bed with a flourish, bouncing on the mattress. Priya watched her from the desk, raising an eyebrow. "So? Did he respond to your ten thousand exclamation points?"
"Yes!" Tulip sang out, grinning. "He sent back one. A single thumb-up emoji."
Priya snorted. "How romantic is my new jiju. Truly a poet."

"Oh, stop it," Tulip laughed, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin in her hands. "He's busy. And he said yes! He's coming for dinner on Friday. Finally, an evening without his manager breathing down his neck."

It had been two weeks since the fitting at Masterji’s shop. Two weeks of stolen texts, one hurried coffee date cut short by an 'urgent client call,' and dozens of magazine pictures Tulip sent Kumar of her chosen Lehenga designs. He always replied, but his enthusiasm felt… filtered. Through the screen.

That evening, the house was filled with the nervous energy of expectation. Tulip had spent an hour getting ready, changing her outfit three times before settling on a simple sage-green salwar kameez that made her eyes sparkle. She practiced her smile in the mirror, a gesture that felt both ridiculously juvenile and absolutely necessary.

When the doorbell rang, a frantic energy erupted. Priya shouted, "I'll get it!", her voice full of mischief, already halfway down the stairs. Tulip followed more slowly, her heart doing a strange little skip-and-jump rhythm against her ribs.

Kumar was standing in the doorway, the glow of the porch light catching the exhaustion on his face, but his smile when he saw her was genuine. He held up a small, slightly wilted box of mithai. "Traffic was murder," he said, an apology already in his tone.

Tulip rushed forward, taking the box from him and linking her arm through his. "We don't care about traffic," she declared, pulling him inside. The warmth of his hand on her back felt as real as his presence.

Dinner was a comfortable affair, their families mingling with easy familiarity. But all Tulip could feel was the magnetic pull of the man beside her. Every time his arm brushed hers as he reached for the dal, her skin tingled. He'd catch her eye and give her a small, tired smile that made her want to pull him away from everyone, find a quiet corner, and just… be.

Later, they managed to claim a sliver of privacy on the small balcony overlooking the garden. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Kumar leaned against the railing, a deep sigh deflating his shoulders.

"Long day?" Tulip asked softly, coming to stand beside him. She didn't touch him, but she stood close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body.
"The longest," he murmured, running a hand through his hair. "They've pushed up our quarterly targets by fifteen percent. Fif percent! I spent half the day calling people who are already struggling to pay their EMIs, trying to sell them more insurance. It feels… wrong."

Tulip's heart ached for him. This wasn't the Assistant Manager her parents bragged about; this was a man being slowly ground down by a machine that didn't care. "Kumar… you can't let them do this to you."

He turned to look at her then, really look at her, and for the first time that evening, the exhaustion was replaced by something else. A raw hunger. "It's easier said than done. But when I'm here…" He reached out, his thumb gently stroking the apple of her cheek. His fingers were warm, calloused from handling bank drafts. "This is the only part that feels real."

The small spark ignited into a flame. She leaned into his touch, her own hand coming up to cover his. "Show me," she whispered, the words barely audible.

Kumar's gaze dropped to her lips. The world around them, the house full of people, the quiet garden below—it all faded into a soft-focus blur. He lowered his head, agonizingly slowly, and kissed her.

It wasn't a chaste peck. It was a deep, searching kiss that tasted of his fatigue and her longing. His lips were firm, demanding, and when hers parted, his tongue swept in, claiming her mouth with a possessiveness that stole her breath. The stubble on his chin scbangd against her skin, a delicious friction that sent jolts straight down her spine. It was the first real kiss in weeks, and it felt like drinking water after a month in the desert.

One of his hands slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her captive. His other hand found her waist, pulling her flush against him. The thin fabric of their clothes was no barrier. She could feel the hard planes of his chest, the solid muscle of his thighs, and most intoxicatingly, the undeniable evidence of his desire pressing against her belly. A soft sound escaped her, a whimper of pure need.

Priya's voice, shrill and theatrical, floated out from the dining room. "Dee! Where are you? Mom wants to serve the gulab jamun!"

Tulip jerked back as if shocked, her face flaming. Kumar cursed under his breath, dropping his forehead against hers. The spell was broken.

"One second," Tulip called out, her voice shaky. She took a ragged breath and looked at Kumar. His eyes were dark, burning with an unslaked fire.

"Stay," he whispered, his hand still tightening possessively on her waist. "Just for five more minutes."

Tulip wanted to. God, how she wanted to. "I can't," she breathed. "They'll come looking."

Tulip left her fiancé and met Priya inside.

"It's Ramesh," she said, handing the phone to Tulip. "From Masterji's shop."

Tulip sat up, taking the phone. "Ramesh? What could he possibly want?" she wondered aloud before pressing the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Tulip-ji? It's Ramesh," came the slightly flustered voice on the other end.

"Hi Ramesh. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes, everything is fine," he quickly reassured her. "Actually... Masterji was just reviewing your measurements and design notes. He says he needs to make some early adjustments to the foundation of the Lehenga. Would you be able to come in for a preliminary fitting tomorrow morning? He's very particular about getting these initial details right."

Tulip's excitement quickly overrode any inconvenience. "Tomorrow afternoon? Of course! What time should I come?"

Ramesh audibly let out a breath of relief. "Thank you, Tulip-ji. Any time after 3 o'clock would be perfect. Masterji will be waiting."

As she ended the call and handed the phone back to Priya, Tulip was practically glowing. "Tomorrow! They need me for an early trial of my Lehenga!"

Priya clapped her hands excitedly. "That means progress! The wedding Lehenga project is officially underway!"
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The shop is warmer than she remembers, air thick with the rich, comforting scent of steamed fabric and hot metal. Raghunath Master stands near the cutting table, while Ramesh hovers in the background, his eyes flickering towards her every few seconds before darting away, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

But Tulip doesn't see Ramesh. Her gaze is locked on the garment hanging from a polished wooden mannequin.

It is just the beginning. It's not yet a Lehenga; it's more like the bones of one—a heavy silk skirt, partially sewn, and the structural form of a choli. The color, however, is breathtaking. It’s a crimson so deep and rich it seems to pulse with its own life, like fresh blood warmed by passion. Woven through it are threads of pure gold that catch the afternoon light slanting through the window and send fractured rays back into the room, making the fabric seem to dance with inner fire.

"It's… unbelievable," she whispers.

"A promise must have weight, even in its infancy," Masterji says, his voice a low rumble. "Now, you must wear it. It cannot learn your body from a distance. You must introduce it."

He and Ramesh lift the heavy silk creation from the mannequin with reverent care. The choli is cool against her fingertips as they hand it to her. She retreats behind the old privacy screen, the sound of their respectful silence filling the small space.

Behind the privacy screen, Tulip stands before the small, slightly wavy mirror. Her reflection looks back, hesitant yet mesmerized. The choli is indeed stunning. Its aristocratic cut with a modest, high neckline offers a sense of regality, while the intricate gold embroidery across the bodice whispers tales of ancient royalty rather than being overt. It fits like a second skin, tracing the elegant curve of her collarbones and the defined slope of her shoulders without revealing too much. The craftsmanship is evident in the way the fabric dbangs, designed to support and enhance without constriction.

Her eyes flicker downwards. The silk lehenga, though unfinished, pools around her feet in a cascade of rich crimson. The fabric holds a stiffness that promises grand pleats, and the golden threads woven throughout catch the light within the curtained area, creating a soft, internal glow. It is opulent yet reserved, projecting an image of quiet grandeur.

She turns slightly, checking the back. There are no sleeves yet, and the back dips modestly, stopping well above her waist, designed perhaps to tie with delicate fabric-covered buttons – far more graceful than exposed skin. It's regal, not vulgar. She carefully lifts the heavy skirt, feeling its substantial weight, the silk cool and smooth against her palms. She admires how the structure already flares at her hips in a controlled silhouette. This is a foundation she can build on. She clicks a mirror-shot and sends it to Priya and their mom.





Taking a deep breath, she meticulously unpins and removes the precious pieces, folding them reverently before pulling her own simple salwar kameez back on. After smoothing down her hair and ensuring she is presentable, she steps out from behind the screen.

"The choli feels... very structured," she begins immediately, her voice holding professional interest as she approaches Masterji. "The fit on the shoulders and chest seems correct." Her gaze finds his, seeking a craftsman's connection rather than a critique from a customer. "And the color of the silk is even more beautiful close up." She leaves it there, her unspoken question hanging in the air: Is this masterpiece progressing according to his grand vision? Is she, the canvas, holding up her part of this intricate bargain?

Masterji nods slowly, a flicker of satisfaction in his otherwise placid eyes. "Proper structure must come first. Without it, passion cannot bloom properly.He holds out his hand, a signal for the discarded choli.

Ramesh scurries forward, taking the lehenga skirt with a touch that borders on worshipful. Tulip hands the choli to Masterji. Their fingers brush for the briefest moment – his dry and papery, hers warm and alive. She feels a jolt, not of electricity, but of… age. A strange, profound coldness emanates from him that seems to seep into her bones for an instant. It is the same feeling she felt the other day.

Masterji holds the choli up, pinching the fabric under each arm. "The armholes," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. "Too tight for freedom of movement. Too loose and they betray their purpose. It is always so." He produces a piece of tailor’s chalk and makes two small, decisive marks under the arms.

"Let us test it," he says, turning to her. The glint in his eye is sharp, assessing.

Ramesh is already there, holding the choli open for her. she turns her back to them. Ramesh helps her slip her arms into the sleeves over her salwar .



 Masterji steps in close, his face near her shoulder. She can feel his breath, cool and smelling faintly of cloves and something metallic.


His hands, cool and precise, reach under her arms to pinch the marked fabric. His knuckles brush against the soft, sensitive skin just beneath her armpit and along the side of her breast. Tulip flinches, a reflexive gasp escaping her lips before she can stop it. Her skin erupts in goosebumps.

"Does it scbang?" Masterji asks, his voice utterly calm, as if her reaction was a simple data point. He applies more pressure with his thumb, directly on the ticklish flesh where arm meets torso. This time, she shudders, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with cold. It feels… intimate. Violatingly so. He's just checking fit, she tells herself frantically. Just a tailor doing his job. But his touch feels too deliberate, too knowing.

"I… I'm not sure," she stammers, hating the tremble in her voice. "It just feels… strange."

"Hmm." The sound is a non-committal hum that resonates unnervingly close to her ear. He withdraws his hands and steps back. Her armpits and the side of her breasts still tingle where he touched her, as if his presence lingered in the air. "Perhaps the tightness restricts more than just movement."

Ramesh stays perfectly still, but Tulip can feel his gaze burning into her reflection in the big mirror at the end of the room. He's watching. They're both watching.

To steady her nerves, Tulip looks at the skirt lying on the table. "The pleating for the ghera," she says, grasping at anything remotely professional. "How many are you planning?"

Masterji follows her gaze. "Not yet," he says, dismissing the question with an airy wave of his hand. "The ghera is a poem written after music is composed. First, we must be certain the base is flawless." He turns his attention back to her, his eyes seeming to strip away the simple salwar kameez and see her with a kind of x-ray vision that makes her throat dry.

He lifts the lehenga skirt, the heavy crimson silk pooling in his arms like a wound. He doesn't ask Ramesh for help. He approaches her slowly. "To flow correctly, a Lehenga must have its center," he explains, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, instructional tone. "It must know where you end and where the world begins."
He dbangs it directly around her waist. The fabric whispers as he circles her, the heavy silk settling against her with startling warmth. He kneels slightly to fix the folds, his face far too close to her stomach and hips.

He takes the edges of the skirt and slowly, methodically, wraps them around her waist and hips, pinning them into place. His hands are everywhere, his knuckles brushing against the curve of her belly, tracing the line of her hipbone. He presses his palm flat against her stomach to smooth a fold, his other hand securing a pin. The contact sears through the cotton, claiming ownership.

"The dbang is not just about fabric," he murmurs, his face so close to her waist that she can feel the displacement of air as he speaks. "It is about harnessing a woman's energy." He tugs at the silk, settling it deeper into the hollows beneath her hip bones.

With one hand still resting possessively on her stomach, just below her navel, he brings his other hand up and lets it rest, light as a bird, on her upper thigh, right over the salwar. "Now, feel the anchor," he whispers. His thumb begins to move, a small, maddening circle over the sensitive muscle. It isn't an inappropriate touch, not really. A tailor must observe the body in motion. But the way he does it feels like a lesson she never asked to learn.

"Here," his voice drops even lower, a conspiratorial rasp that buzzes through her bones. "Stand perfectly still."

His fingers tighten fractionally on her leg as he uses his other hand to adjust one of the safety pins securing the heavy skirt to her waistband. The hand resting on her thigh is hard to ignore. It's both comforting and stirring, sending wild tingles from her skin straight to her brain and deep down where it counts.
(Now Masterji will conclude this and offer her beautiful handkerchief. Tulip will not accept it first but Masterji will insist. telling her that he had some spare and he made it for him etec etc.. some realistic bullshit to fool her. the point is to make Tulip carry the handerschief with her, so that he can be with her.)

"Now," he says, his voice calm again, taking a half step back. The removal of his proximity is both a relief and an aching loss. "It breathes with you." He walks around her one last time, his critical eye surveying the dbang, the fit, the fall. He kneels one final time to adjust the hem where it pools around her ankles.
As he rises, he catches her eye in the mirror. There is an unnerving stillness in his gaze, a pride that seems more profound than mere professional satisfaction. He looks as if he’s not just crafted a garment, but has tuned a delicate instrument to a specific note.

"Remove it," he says quietly. "I got what I needed to know"

Ramesh scurries forward to help her undo the pins and ease the heavy silk from her body. As Tulip shrugs the choli off over her salwar, she fumbles with the catch, her fingers feeling thick and clumsy. A strange languor has settled over her, a deep weariness mixed with a faint, pulsating thrum of awareness where his hands touched her.

She puts the soft pink cotton of her own kameez back on, but it feels wrong. Coarse. Ignorant.

As she's smoothing down her sleeves, Masterji is at his small desk, rifling through a drawer. He pulls something out. It’s a handkerchief, but nothing like the plain cotton squares she usually uses. This is a thing of impossible softness, made of a fabric so fine it looks like woven spider silk. It's the same shade of crimson as the Lehenga, and embroidered in one corner, using a thread so fine it's almost invisible, is a single, golden tulip.

"For you," he says, stepping forward and holding it out. The tulip seems to shimmer in the dim light of the shop.

"Oh… no, I couldn't," Tulim ssmiles broadly taken aback. It's clearly too fine, too personal. A gift before the main product is even finished feels transactional in a way she dislikes. "That's too generous, Masterji."

He doesn't withdraw his hand. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes fix on her with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. "It is not a gift, child," he corrects her, his voice patient but firm. "It is a trial piece."

She frowns in confusion. "A trial piece? For… what?"

"For the feel. For the touch," he explains, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "This is a remnant from the fabric bolt. You must become accustomed to its nature. Lehengas are not just worn; they are lived with. The body must recognize its dbang, its weight, its scent, before it is asked to carry the full glory of the design. Keep it. Carry it in your purse. Let it touch your skin. Your hands will teach it your secrets." This little scrap of magic feels like a cold, smooth stone being pressed into her palm. The lies are so beautifully crafted, so reasonable.

"Your sister touches her dupatta obsessively," Masterji adds with an unsettling accuracy that makes her head snap up. "She caresses her salwar. Ruchi says the clothes guide her. My clothes are not mere cloth. They are companions for a lifetime."

"Ruchi isn't my sister..she is my....." but Tulip's word dries as she remembers Ruchi was talking the same way the other day when they visited her and Rachna had dismissed it as dramatics. Now, hearing Masterji echo that sentiment so precisely, a shiver runs down her spine. He doesn't just make clothes. He studies the women who wear them with an unnerving, almost preternatural perception.

"Keep it," he repeats, his tone a soft but unyielding command. His gaze is like physical weight. The little handkerchief in his hand seems to pulse with a faint, inner heat. There is no refusing him. To refuse would feel like rejecting the Lehenga itself.

Slowly, reluctantly, she reaches out. Her fingers brush his again, that strange, electric jolt of old and young making her twitch. She takes the handkerchief. It is impossibly soft in her palm, impossibly light, yet its presence feels significant. The golden tulip is a perfect, tiny replica of herself.

It feels wrong to put this opulent thing into her simple everyday purse, which now looks cheap and childish beside such elegance. But she folds it carefully and does just that. The silk brushes against her keys and her phone, a reminder of the world she's just touched.

"You will get used to its scent," Masterji says with a smile. It is the first truly warm smile she has seen from him, and it does nothing to ease the cold knot in her stomach. "Come back next week. The embroidery on the choli will be started."