23-10-2025, 08:33 PM
(This post was last modified: 23-10-2025, 08:39 PM by kingqueenjoker. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The taxi door slammed shut, leaving Kunal Sarkar coated in a fine layer of grit. His suit jacket felt like a damp dishrag against his skin. Outside, horns blared in an endless, angry chorus, punctuated by the sharp stink of diesel fumes. Forty minutes crawling through potholed streets. Forty minutes stewing in the stagnant heat. His collar was soaked.
He pushed open the apartment door, the cool air hitting him like a blessing. "Sheila?" Silence answered him. He kicked off his ruined shoes, leaving dusty prints on the polished floor. The bedroom door was ajar, light spilling out. He shuffled towards it, drawn by the faint, sharp smell of citrus and alcohol.
Inside, Sheila stood before the full-length mirror, utterly absorbed. She wore a sleeveless noodle strap blouse, and a siphon saree shimmering cobalt dress Kunal hadn't seen before. Her back was to him. One arm was raised, fingers deftly smoothing deodorant stick over the smooth, bare skin of her armpit. The muscles in her shoulder flexed. She didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him standing there, sweat-stained and defeated.
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"Traffic was hell," Kunal rasped, his voice thick with the dust and frustration coating his throat. "Absolute hellhole. Took forty minutes just from Marine Drive. The taxi AC died halfway..." He trailed off. The rhythmic *shhhk-shhhk* of the deodorant stick against her skin was the only sound. The sharp, floral-chemical scent of the deodorant filled the small space, mingling unpleasantly with his own stale sweat. "Sheila? Did you hear me?"
"Hmm." Sheila lowered her arm, examining the smooth, hairless skin critically. She tilted her head, catching the light on her jawline. The saree sparkled faintly like crushed sapphires. Kunal watched a single bead of moisture trace a path down her spine before disappearing beneath the fabric. He felt invisible, a ghost in his own hallway.
"Traffic was hell," Kunal repeated, louder this time, stepping into the bedroom doorway. The scent of her expensive deodorant – something floral and aggressively clean – warred with the damp, earthy smell clinging to him. "Absolute hellhole. AC died. Forty minutes crawling through that mess." He gestured vaguely behind him, towards the choked city. She picked up a silver tube of lipstick, unscrewed it with a precise click, and leaned closer to the mirror, her focus absolute.
Kunal shuffled towards the ensuite bathroom, peeling off his sweat-stained jacket. The cool tiles felt good under his socks. He splashed lukewarm water on his face, the grit stinging his eyes. When he looked up, dripping, Sheila’s reflection was still framed in the mirror behind him. She was smoothing the lipstick expertly, the color a bold, dangerous red. "Going somewhere?" he asked, toweling his face roughly.
"Hmm." The sound was dismissive, automatic. She blotted her lips on a tissue, leaving a perfect crimson kiss-print. Kunal watched her pluck an invisible lint fleck from her saree’s shimmering fabric. "Shoaib’s in town," she stated, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror. Her gaze was cool, assessing, like she was inspecting merchandise. "Dinner meeting. Potential investor." She turned, the saree whispering disobediently, and picked up a small clutch purse from the dresser. "Crucial for the boutique."
Kunal’s stomach clenched. Shoaib. The name tasted like spoiled milk. Tall, perpetually tanned Shoaib with his easy laugh and imported watches. The investor who always seemed to be "in town" whenever Sheila needed "urgent" consultations. Kunal gripped the damp towel tighter, knuckles whitening. "Dinner? Now? It’s..." He glanced at his own watch, smeared with grime. "...barely past six. What about Soham?"
Sheila snapped her clutch shut with a decisive click. Her eyes flickered over Kunal’s disheveled state – the wilted collar, the dust clinging to his trousers – with barely concealed impatience. "Soham," she enunciated crisply, "is at Mrs. Plunkett’s. Maths tuition. Ends at seven-thirty." She swept past him, the black siphon saree whispering promises Kunal would never hear. The aggressive floral deodorant scent lingered like a taunt. "He’ll be dropped home. dnt be late and finish the dinner early "
Kunal scrambled after her into the living room, desperation loosening his tongue. "Right, Shoaib," he blurted, forcing a chuckle that sounded like gravel in a tin can. "Big investor, eh? Maybe I should tag along? Keep an eye on things? Make sure he doesn't... invest *too* enthusiastically?" He gestured vaguely, hoping the feeble joke masked the gnawing suspicion.
Sheila paused near the hallway mirror, adjusting a stray curl. A slow, incredulous smile spread across her freshly painted lips. "You?" she echoed, her voice dripping with amused condescension. She turned fully, her black siphon saree catching the light like dark water. "Kunal Sarkar, chaperone? Protecting me from the big, bad Shoaib?" Her laugh was a short, sharp bark, devoid of warmth. "Darling, please. You'd spend the entire dinner sweating into your napkin and stammering about monsoon forecasts."
She stepped closer, invading his space. The aggressive floral deodorant overwhelmed Kunal's senses, a sharp contrast to his own stale sweat. Her eyes, sharp and mocking, raked over him from his dusty shoes to his damp, thinning hair. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that vibrated with cruel amusement. "Even if," she hissed, the words precise and cutting, "Shoaib insists I see the 'view' from his attached bedroom suite, and fucks me dry against his imported silk curtains... you'll just sit there at the dining table, nursing your lukewarm soup, praying it ends quickly. Or maybe you'll sneak off to the lobby and call your mommy to complain?" A cruel smirk played on her lips. "You won't have the balls to step in. Not even if you hear me moaning at full volume through the door. Not even if I come back limping, struggling to walk straight after he's finished pounding me raw..." She paused, tilting her head, her gaze boring into his. "Hoping I didn't limp *too* noticeably when I came back for your mommy to understand."
Kunal felt the words land like physical blows. His face burned, a mixture of humiliation and impotent fury. He wanted to shout, to grab her shoulders, to shake her. Instead, he stared at the intricate pattern of her saree, the cobalt shimmer suddenly looking like prison bars. His throat tightened, choking off any retort. He could only manage a strangled sound, a pathetic wheeze escaping his lips. Sheila’s laugh was short, sharp, devoid of any warmth. "Exactly," she stated, the finality in her voice absolute. She straightened, the picture of cool composure, while Kunal felt like a puddle of grime on the polished floor.
But then, something shifted in Sheila’s expression. The cruel amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of something softer, almost weary. Seeing him shrink before her – shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, radiating a palpable misery – seemed to pierce her usual armor. She sighed, a long, slow exhale that deflated some of her aggressive posture. "Kunal," she said, her voice losing its razor edge, becoming almost gentle. She stepped closer again, this time without invasion. Her hand reached out, hesitant at first, then settled lightly on his damp forearm. "Look at me." He flinched but slowly raised his eyes. Hers held a trace of apology now, mixed with exasperation. "That was... too much. I'm sorry. Truly." Her fingers squeezed his arm lightly. "You don't need to worry like this. I *can* take care of myself. Trust me, okay? It's just business. Shoaib talks big, that's all." She offered a small, conciliatory smile. "He’s harmless."
Kunal felt the unexpected warmth of her touch seep through his sleeve. The scent of her aggressive floral deodorant softened against his skin, mingling strangely with the lingering grit and his own dampness. He stared at her, bewildered by the sudden shift. Her apology felt genuine, disarming his simmering anger. A choked sound escaped him, not a wheeze this time, but something closer to a sob caught in his throat. "Sheila..." he managed, his voice thick with unshed tears and confusion. He didn't pull away from her touch.
"Shh," she murmured, stepping fully into him. Her arms slid around his waist, pulling him close against the cool, smooth fabric of her saree. Kunal stiffened for a second, unused to this tenderness, then melted into her embrace. His arms wrapped tentatively around her shoulders, his cheek resting against the top of her head. He inhaled the complex scent – perfume, deodorant, the faint trace of hairspray – and beneath it, the familiar, comforting smell that was uniquely Sheila. The tension bled out of him, replaced by a shaky vulnerability. "It’s okay," she whispered against his chest. "Just trust me. I can handle Shoaib. Handle myself. Always have." Her hand rubbed slow circles on his back. "Harmless talk, that's all it ever is."
Kunal clung tighter, burying his face in her hair. The memory of her cruel words still stung, but this unexpected warmth was a balm. "Mmmph," he mumbled into her scalp. "Just... dinner? Promise?"
"Just dinner," Sheila murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his damp shirt. "Business talk over prawns and wine. Nothing more." She pulled back slightly, cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed away a smear of grime near his temple. "You look exhausted. Go shower. Wash that traffic off."
Kunal nodded, the fight drained out of him. Her sudden tenderness felt like a lifeline. "Your parents," he mumbled, remembering. "They're arriving tonight. For the trip tomorrow. To Meera's for the Puja." The reminder hung between them – a fragile peace offering tied to family duty.
Sheila pulled back slightly, her expression softening further. "I know, Kunal," she said, her thumb tracing the worry lines near his temple. "I haven't forgotten. Dinner won't be long. Shoaib’s flight leaves early tomorrow; he won’t linger." She offered a reassuring smile, squeezing his shoulders. "I'll be back by nine, ten at the absolute latest. Plenty of time to help Mum settle in." Her gaze flickered towards the hallway clock. "Just... go shower. You smell like a monsoon drain."
Kunal shifted his weight, his eyes darting nervously towards the shimmering cobalt saree clinging to her curves. "Sheila... about the dress," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He gestured vaguely towards her neckline, the intricate dbang revealing a hint of cleavage. "It's... stunning. Really. But... my parents? When they arrive tonight? They're... traditional, you know? Mum especially. Seeing you in..." He trailed off, cheeks flushing crimson. "It's just... quite bold for them."
Sheila paused at the doorway, her hand resting on the knob. A flicker of understanding softened her features. "Oh, Kunal," she sighed, a hint of exasperation mixed with affection. "Don't worry your dusty little head." She flashed him a quick, reassuring smile. "I'm not planning a grand entrance in this. It's purely for Shoaib's investor theatrics. I'll change *before* I come back home. Straight back into something respectable for Mum-ji. Promise."
Kunal shifted his weight, the damp towel forgotten in his hands. His brow furrowed slightly. A spark of bewildered defiance, fueled by exhaustion and the lingering sting of her earlier cruelty, flickered. "But... why?" he blurted out, his voice raspy but tinged with genuine confusion. "Why wear... *that*," he gestured vaguely at the shimmering cobalt saree clinging to her curves, "if you have to go through the whole palaver of changing back? Seems like extra hassle." He managed a weak, tongue-in-cheek smile. "Unless Shoaib insists on inspecting the merchandise personally?"
Sheila paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. A slow, enigmatic smile spread across her freshly painted lips – not the cruel smirk from before, but something deeper, more private. It held a hint of amusement, a touch of weary pragmatism, and perhaps a sliver of the sharp-edged reality Kunal usually avoided. Her eyes met his, sharp and knowing. "Oh, Kunal," she murmured, her voice low and surprisingly gentle. "Sometimes, darling, the packaging *is* the product. Especially in boutique business." The smile deepened, a silent commentary on Shoaib, on Kunal’s naivety, on the entire exhausting charade. "First impressions matter. Even," she added, her gaze flickering over his disheveled state, "if they’re just impressions." Without another word, she turned the knob and slipped out into the hallway. The sharp click of her heels echoed briefly on the marble floor before fading, leaving behind only the faint, aggressive floral ghost of her deodorant and Kunal’s profound bewilderment.
Alone in the sudden quiet, Kunal sagged against the doorframe. Relief, thick and unexpected, washed over him. She hadn't exploded. She hadn't twisted his clumsy accusation into another reason for contempt. She'd almost... *understood*. That final enigmatic comment about packaging and impressions felt less like a dismissal and more like a weary acknowledgment of a shared, unspoken game. He pushed off the frame, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Maybe Shoaib *was* just harmless bluster. Maybe Sheila *could* handle herself. The phantom sting of her earlier cruelty lingered, but it was dulled now, buried under the surprising warmth of her touch and the pragmatic strangeness of her exit.
The apartment felt cavernous without Sheila's sharp energy. Kunal shuffled towards the kitchen, the polished floor cool under his socks. His parents. Arriving tonight. For the trip to Meera's tomorrow. The thought propelled him into action. He grabbed a bucket and mop from the utility closet, filling it with lukewarm water and a generous splash of disinfectant. The dusty footprints he'd tracked in earlier became his immediate target. He scrubbed vigorously, the rhythmic swish-swish filling the silence. Each stroke erased a trace of the city's grime, and perhaps, a little of his own humiliation. He moved systematically: wiping down the hallway console table where Sheila had dumped her keys, polishing the brass handle she'd touched, even dusting the framed photo of Soham grinning toothily on his fourth birthday.
The Uber glided to a stop beneath the glittering portico of The Grand Imperial. Sheila stepped out, the cobalt siphon saree catching the valet's appreciative glance. The aggressive floral deodorant felt like a shield against the hotel's opulent chill. Inside, the lobby was a symphony of hushed tones and gleaming marble. Her heels clicked decisively, echoing the frantic rhythm of her thoughts. Mustaq Ali. The name thudded against her ribs like a fist. His latest threat, delivered via a clipped phone call that morning, replayed: *"Final week, Sheila. Settle the principal, or I settle it my way. Your boutique makes nice collateral."* Three years of hemorrhaging cash, hidden behind optimistic spreadsheets and frantic juggling of credit lines. this is something she did not let her parents or even her husband , kunal knew. Shoaib wasn't just a potential investor tonight; he was her lifeline. She needed an extension on the loan *he'd* already given her, plus fresh capital to stall Mustaq's predatory grasp. The sheer impossibility of it tightened her throat.
As the elevator doors slid shut, Sheila automatically adjusted her pallu, pulling the shimmering siphon fabric lower across her collarbones. The cool metal reflection showed a woman radiating brittle confidence. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Kunal’s bewildered question echoed: *"Why wear that if you have to change back?"* Oh, Kunal. Sweet, oblivious Kunal. If only she could tell him the raw calculus. She wore the saree precisely *because* it showcased skin, hinted at curves beneath the dbang. It was ammunition. For Shoaib, whose eyes lingered too long, whose "business dinners" always ended with suggestive murmurs about "nightcaps" in his suite, this was bait. A little catalyst to grease the wheels of agreement. Make him *want* to say yes. The thought curdled her stomach, but desperation was a potent disinfectant. She took a deep breath, the floral deodorant sharp in her nostrils. Packaging *was* the product tonight.
The elevator chimed softly, opening onto the hushed luxury of the executive floor. Sheila strode towards Shoaib’s suite, her heels sinking into plush carpeting. Her earlier mocking words to Kunal flashed unbidden: *"Even if he fucks me dry... you'll do nothing."* A bitter truth, perhaps. But another truth clawed its way up: if Shoaib indeed demanded sex tonight as the price for saving her boutique, she’d have no real choice. Mustaq Ali’s thugs weren't metaphorical. She’d walk into that bedroom. She’d plaster on a smile, use every ounce of charm, every evasion tactic honed over years – feigned headaches, sudden calls about Soham, promises for "next time." But if he insisted? If he pinned her to those imported silk curtains? Her stomach clenched. Gleefully? Never. Resignedly? Absolutely. Survival wasn't pretty. It was a transaction written in sweat and shame, paid in installments of dignity. She’d pay it. For Soham. For the boutique that was her last shred of independence. Kunal’s imagined paralysis wasn't weakness; it was her grim reality. She’d avoid that bed with every weapon she possessed. But she’d climb into it if survival demanded.
A grim chuckle escaped her lips, startlingly loud in the quiet corridor. *Well, Sheila,* she thought wryly, *at least you don’t have to sneak into some mall bathroom stall tonight.* The absurdity was almost comforting. If Shoaib was determined to hump her, he’d likely strip her nude himself. Efficient, really. No frantic changing in cramped public toilets afterward. She could just... get dressed again afterward. Slip back into her respectable salwar kameez right there in his suite. Wipe away the smeared lipstick, smooth her hair, become Sati-Savitri incarnate before stepping back into her role as dutiful wife and daughter-in-law. The image was grotesquely funny: spread-eagled and moaning one minute, demurely folding her hands and asking Kunal’s mother if she needed tea the next. *Legs wide open for exploration,* she mused darkly, *every angle covered.* Shoaib wasn't known for subtlety or restraint. Her smile tightened into a grimace. *Just... please, God,* she silently pleaded, *don’t let him leave me limping.* Kunal noticing *that* would be... complicated. Especially with his parents arriving.
She raised her hand to knock on the heavy suite door, her knuckles hovering inches from the polished wood. The siphon saree felt suddenly heavy, like armor she didn't want to wear. The aggressive floral deodorant seemed cloying now, a desperate shield against the transaction ahead. Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm the frantic flutter in her chest, she rapped twice – sharp, professional taps.
The door swung open almost immediately. Shoaib stood there, already grinning, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He wasn't tall; Sheila always forgot that. But his presence filled the doorway – expensive charcoal suit jacket open over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms dusted with dark hair. His gaze swept over her, lingering appreciatively on the cobalt dbang clinging to her hips, the hint of cleavage revealed by the low pallu. "Sheila! Right on time," he boomed, stepping aside. "Come in, come in. You look... spectacular. Investment-worthy already." His chuckle was low, intimate. The suite beyond was vast, all muted golds and deep blues, dominated by a panoramic city view glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows. A small dining table was set near the window, candles flickering beside covered dishes.
Sheila stepped inside, the plush carpet swallowing her footsteps. The scent of expensive cologne – sandalwood and spice – battled with the lingering floral deodorant she wore. "Shoaib," she smiled, the practiced warmth reaching her eyes. "Thank you. The suite is magnificent." She moved towards the table, projecting calm confidence. "I brought the revised projections. The boutique's Q3 numbers are exceeding..."
Shoaib waved a dismissive hand, his grin widening as he closed the door with a soft click. "Numbers later, Sheila. Relax! First, a drink. Celebrate potential." He strode to the wet bar, pouring a generous splash of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. "Single malt? Your favorite."
Sheila forced a smile, accepting the glass. "Thank you, Shoaib." She took a small, controlled sip, the smoky peat burning her throat. She started towards the dining table again, a deliberate move to anchor the evening in business. "The projections show a clear path to profitability by Q4 if we secure..."
Shoaib intercepted her smoothly. His tumbler clinked onto a side table. Before Sheila could react, his hand slid firmly around her waist – not on the stiff silk of her saree, but beneath the dbang, finding the bare skin of her midriff. His fingers were warm, possessive, digging slightly into the soft flesh above her waistband. "Always rushing to business," he chuckled, his voice thick. He didn't let go. Instead, he applied gentle pressure, guiding her firmly away from the table, deeper into the suite towards the plush seating area near the panoramic windows. "Relax first. Enjoy the view."
Sheila froze mid-step. The contact was electric, unwanted. Her usual repertoire flashed through her mind – the artful twist away, the feigned stumble, the sudden urgent phone call. But Mustaq Ali’s snarled threat echoed louder than her instincts. *Settle the principal, or I settle it my way.* She forced her muscles to unclench. A subtle recoil was instinctive, a slight stiffening in her shoulders, but she didn’t pull away. She let herself be steered. The cool silk of her saree brushed against his forearm as they walked. His thumb rubbed slow circles on her bare skin. "The city looks beautiful tonight," she managed, her voice carefully neutral, devoid of warmth but lacking overt protest. She stared out at the glittering skyline, focusing on a distant blinking antenna light, phthalo blue against the black.
Shoaib chuckled, low and satisfied. He guided her onto a plush velvet sofa facing the windows. He sat close, his thigh pressing firmly against hers through the thin silk. He didn't release her waist. "Beautiful indeed," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her profile rather than the view. He took a slow sip from his tumbler. "Now, Sheila," he said, his tone shifting abruptly to business, though his hand remained possessive. "We can talk. But," he paused, swirling the amber liquid, "I don't have much time tonight. need to meet few folks and got flight tommorow too. Very early." He looked directly at her, his smile sharpening. "So, be concise. What is it you *really* need?"
Sheila’s breath hitched. *Concisely?* Her meticulously crafted proposal – the revised projections, the Q3 surge, the projected Q4 profitability with *just* a little more capital – evaporated like smoke. Panic, cold and sharp, stabbed through her gut. Mustaq Ali’s snarling face flashed behind her eyes. She’d planned a slow build, a logical argument showcasing her competence, proving she wasn’t a charity case. Now, stripped of preamble, her request sounded naked, desperate. "I... Shoaib," she stammered, forcing her voice level. "The boutique is exceeding targets. Q3 numbers are strong." She gestured vaguely towards her discarded bag containing the tablet. "But... unforeseen expenses. Supplier delays... penalties." The lies felt thick on her tongue. "I need... an extension on the existing loan repayment. Just six months. And..." She swallowed hard. "...a small top-up. To cover operational gaps until Q4 profits solidify." She avoided his eyes, staring at the phthalo blue light blinking in the distance.
Shoaib chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. He leaned back, swirling his whisky, his hand still resting possessively on her bare midriff. "Sheila, Sheila," he sighed, shaking his head slowly. "My CA already ran your numbers. Yesterday." He paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air. "The projections? Optimistic. The penalties? Significant." His gaze sharpened, pinning her. "Frankly, darling, the boutique looks less like an investment and more like a... liability." He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. "In fact," he murmured, the words dropping like stones, "I was planning to ask you tonight... for the immediate return of the principal. Twenty-five lakhs. By next week."
Sheila froze. The glittering cityscape blurred. Twenty-five lakhs? Next week? It was impossible. Mustaq Ali’s deadline crashed into Shoaib’s demand, crushing the air from her lungs. Her meticulously rehearsed pitch dissolved into ash. She stared at him, stunned into silence, the practised smile cracking at the edges.
Shoaib watched her reaction with detached amusement. He took another leisurely sip of his whisky, the ice clinking softly. "You know, Sheila," he mused, his gaze drifting deliberately from her face down the cobalt dbang clinging to her hips, "I lose interest in things... terribly fast." He paused, letting the crude implication hang thick in the air like cheap perfume. "Even beautiful things." His eyes flicked back to hers, cold and assessing. "The thrill fades. Especially," he added, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "when the packaging promises more than the product delivers."
Sheila’s spine stiffened. The insult landed like a physical blow. Her boutique. Her desperation. Her *body*. All laid bare as inadequate merchandise. She forced her chin up, meeting his gaze. "Shoaib," she began, her voice tight but controlled, "if you’d just look at the revised—"
"Revised?" Shoaib cut her off, swirling his whisky dismissively. "Sheila, darling, maybe being an entrepreneur isn’t your cup of tea." He leaned closer, his breath warm and smelling of peat smoke. "Some women aren’t built for risk. Better to return home. Be a good Bharatiya nari. Tend to that husband of yours." His eyes flickered with cruel amusement. "He seems... manageable."
Sheila didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, deliberate movement: she rose from the sofa. As she stood, her pallu shifted, slipping lower across her collarbones, intentionally granting him a fuller view of her cleavage beneath the shimmering siphon. She took a step towards him, closing the distance until she stood directly before his seated form. Leaning down, her lips brushed dangerously close to his ear, her whisper low and charged. "Goody-goody? Hardly. And my ass," she murmured, the word deliberate, vulgar, "has been on the line more times than I can count to get here. Risk doesn't scare me."
Shoaib’s detached amusement vanished. His gaze snapped from the exposed skin to her eyes, sharpening with renewed, predatory interest. He leaned forward slightly, a slow, sensuous smile spreading. "Putting that... *ass*... on the line?" he echoed, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. "Doesn't it worry you, Sheila? That putting it out there... might just get it fucked?" His hand lifted, hovering near her hip.
Sheila seized the spark in his eyes. *Mortgage*. The word flashed like neon. She didn’t retreat. Instead, she leaned fractionally closer, her whisper a deliberate rasp against the silence. "Worry? Darling, I didn’t just put it *on* the line. I mortgaged it. To the hilt." She held his gaze, letting the vulgarity hang. "Yes, sometimes it got... fucked. Brutally. Men like you," she added, her tone brittle yet oddly pragmatic, "don’t hand out freebies." Her smile was thin, resigned. "It’s the price of getting out of the woods."
Shoaib’s hand, hovering near her hip, finally landed. Not gently. His fingers dug into the curve of her waist beneath the saree’s dbang, possessive and assessing. His other hand traced the line of her jaw, calloused thumb brushing her lower lip. "Mortgaged," he echoed, a dark chuckle rumbling low in his chest. His eyes, locked on hers, held a predatory gleam. "And tell me, Sheila... did you *enjoy* paying that price?" His thumb pressed down slightly, smudging her lipstick. "Did that tight big ass learn to like the pounding?"
Sheila didn’t pull away. She met his gaze head-on, the resignation in her smile hardening into something flinty. "Enjoy?" Her laugh was short, sharp, devoid of humour. "Darling, think of it like a Fixed Deposit. High yield, painful entry." She leaned infinitesimally closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I don't offer it to Kunal. He wouldn't know what to do with it. Reserved... for emergencies. For men who understand leverage." Her eyes flickered towards the bedroom door, then back to his. "Only when absolutely necessary to get out of the woods."
Shoaib’s predatory grin widened, his thumb tracing the outline of her lips again, smearing the colour further. "An FD? High yield?" He chuckled, low and appreciative. "Practical woman. And tonight? Does tonight feel... necessary?" His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him. The scent of whisky and sandalwood enveloped her. "Is the woods closing in?"
Sheila didn’t flinch. A resignation settled over her features, twisting into a mocking smile – sharp, bitter, yet strangely detached. She met his gaze squarely. "You always wanted to fuck me, didn’t you?" Her voice was flat, devoid of surprise. "From the very first meeting."
Shoaib’s predatory grin widened, unashamed. "Yes," he breathed, fingers tightening on her waist. "From the moment I saw you walk into that investor pitch. That tight ass swaying in that saree... I knew."
Sheila’s mocking smile sharpened. "There are no freebies," she stated flatly. "Two-year extension on the loan. Ten lakhs top-up. Sign the papers tonight." She paused, letting the demand hang. "Then you can have my ass."
Shoaib’s predatory grin faltered slightly. His mouth opened—likely to haggle, to demand concessions—but Sheila cut him off instantly. "No," she snapped, her voice brittle steel. "Every time you’re in town," she continued, the words clipped and pragmatic, "you can have it. But *only* if the papers are signed *now*. Tonight." Her eyes drilled into his. "This isn’t a negotiation, Shoaib. It’s a transaction."
He studied her face—the mocking resignation, the utter lack of pretense. The raw pragmatism was unexpectedly potent. A slow, appreciative smirk replaced his hesitation. "Businesswoman till the end," he murmured, his hand sliding lower, squeezing her ass possessively through the silk. "Fine. Deal." He released her abruptly, striding towards the suite’s sleek desk. He pulled a laptop from a drawer, his fingers tapping rapidly. "Drafting the amendment now. Two-year extension on the principal repayment, ten lakhs additional credit line." He glanced back, his gaze lingering on her hips. "Effective immediately upon my… signature."
Sheila watched him, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Relief warred with revulsion. He typed swiftly, pulling up a standard loan amendment template. "Inspect the terms," he commanded, swiveling the laptop screen towards her. The legalese swam before her eyes, but the key figures were clear: 25 lakhs principal repayment deferred by 24 months, +10 lakhs credit. She scanned it quickly, forcing herself to focus. "Agreed," she breathed, her voice tight. "Fine. Get it printed. My lawyers will draft the final version on stamp paper tomorrow, and we’ll sign it then. Meanwhile," she added firmly, "email that draft to me *now*. Official communication."
Shoaib chuckled, hitting send with a flourish. "Done. But what about the deal sweetener, Sheila?" His gaze was predatory again, lingering on her hips. "Tonight feels... rushed."
Sheila forced a conspiratorial smile. "Patience," she murmured, stepping closer. "This weekend. Soham and Kunal are visiting my sister-in-law in Pune." She leaned in, her whisper brushing his ear. "Whole weekend. No interruptions. Tonight?" She shrugged, a deliberate dismissal. "I need to get back. Kunal’s parents arrived." She gestured towards the bathroom door. "Mind if I change? Can’t greet them in this... packaging."
Shoaib’s grin returned, wider now. "Of course." He waved a dismissive hand towards the bathroom. "Be quick." As Sheila disappeared inside, he turned back to the laptop, printing the amendment confirmation. The lock clicked softly behind her.
Inside the marble expanse, Sheila leaned against the cool door, trembling. *Done.* The email confirmation glowed on her phone screen. Two years. Ten lakhs. Breathing shallowly, she peeled off the treacherous siphon saree like shedding poisoned skin. The cool air hit her bare shoulders. She scrubbed at her smudged lipstick with a hotel towel, the abrasive fabric scbanging her skin raw. From her oversized tote, she pulled out the simple cotton salwar kameez—sky blue, modest cut, Kunal’s mother approved. She dressed swiftly, fingers fumbling on the buttons. The floral deodorant felt suffocating now; she splashed cold water on her face, patting it dry. The reflection showed a strained woman, eyes shadowed but posture rigid. Respectable. *Sati-Savitri incarnate.*
Emerging, she found Shoaib holding a freshly printed sheet. His gaze flickered over her transformation—demure salwar kameez replacing the cobalt temptation—and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Changed your packaging already?" he remarked dryly, handing her the document. "Bit of a downgrade."
Sheila folded the paper crisply, tucking it into her bag. "Practicality," she countered smoothly. "The saree served its purpose." Her smile was tight, professional. "Saturday afternoon work?"
Shoaib's eyes narrowed, assessing her sudden transformation—the modest neckline, the loose fabric hiding curves he'd mentally cataloged moments ago. "Bit sudden, this respectable matron act." His chuckle held an edge. "Worried hubby might sniff the desperation?"
Sheila slung her tote over her shoulder, the printed amendment confirmation safely tucked inside beside her folded cobalt weapon. "Practicality," she repeated, her voice crisp as starched cotton. "The saree opened doors. This," she gestured lightly at her salwar, "keeps them from slamming shut." She offered a tight, transactional smile. "Saturday afternoon. Text me the suite number."
Shoaib leaned against the desk, swirling the dregs of his whisky. "Early bird gets the worm," he murmured, his gaze lingering on the high neckline hiding the skin he’d tasted moments ago. "Or in this case... the ass." His chuckle was low, predatory. "Don’t forget the packaging."
Sheila paused at the suite door, her hand on the brass handle. She didn’t turn. "Packaging?" Her voice was cool silk. "It’s reusable. Unlike excuses." She glanced back over her shoulder, a flicker of dark amusement in her eyes.
Shoaib snorted, swirling his whisky. "Excuses? Like rushing back to hubby and in laws tonight? I won't hear that whine on Saturday, Sheila. No sudden 'family emergencies'."
Sheila turned fully now, leaning against the heavy door. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips – not warm, but sharp-edged, acknowledging a shared, ugly truth. "Family emergencies?" Her laugh was a soft, bitter scbang. "Darling, look at me. Married. Kid." She gestured loosely at her demure salwar. "Did that ever stop any of the others? The investors ? The suppliers? The politicians?" Her gaze locked onto his, utterly devoid of illusion. "Not one of those assholes hesitated. Not one spared me because I wore a mangalsutra." Her voice dropped, thick with dark pragmatism. "They stripped me nude. drained me dry. Only *then* did they leave." She shrugged, the movement economical. "I don't expect you to be different, Shoaib. Why would you? You paid."
Shoaib raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued now. He gestured vaguely at her transformed appearance. "So... camouflage? Every day? Slip into this... respectable matron act?" He took a step closer, peering at her face. "To keep that gullible husband of yours blissfully ignorant? Maintain the family balance?"
Sheila paused, her hand still on the cool brass door handle. A harsh, brittle laugh escaped her. "Camouflage?" She turned fully, meeting his gaze dead-on. "No. Only when absolutely necessary." Her voice dropped to a low, icy murmur. "Like when I have to be nude. Riding a politician in his bedroom." She watched the flicker of surprise in his eyes. "While my husband waits downstairs in the lobby. Patiently. Thinking my 'meeting' is running late." Her smile was a razor-thin slash. "That’s when I wear the camouflage *afterwards*. To walk out looking like I just reviewed spreadsheets." She shrugged, the gesture utterly devoid of emotion. "Not balance, Shoaib. Damage control."
She didn’t wait for his reaction. She turned the handle, pulled open the heavy door, and stepped into the plush hallway. She didn’t glance back. The soft thud of the door closing behind her echoed like a tomb seal. Her heels clicked a sharp, rapid tattoo on the marble floor as she strode towards the elevators, the folded amendment confirmation a heavy secret in her bag. Her face, reflected in the mirrored elevator doors, was a mask of weary pragmatism, the demure salwar kameez a stark contrast to the raw transaction sealed moments before.
Inside the elevator, descending, Sheila leaned against the cool metal wall. A sudden, bone-deep dryness clawed at her throat, a physical echo of the emotional dehydration the encounter had inflicted. She felt parched, hollowed out. *Water*. She needed water desperately. The hotel bar was just off the lobby. She could grab a bottle. Kunal and his parents could wait five more minutes. She needed to wash the taste of lies and Shoaib’s cheap whisky from her mouth. The story she’d spun – the politicians, the nude negotiations, the husband waiting obliviously downstairs – was mostly fiction, tailored to feed Shoaib’s predatory ego and make her seem like a hardened player. Mostly. The core truth, the bitter kernel she’d wrapped in lurid fantasy, was that yes, on two -three desperate occasions, chasing a crucial clearance permit stuck in bureaucratic hell,or greasing the wheels for a zone approval for one of the showroom.when she chased a MP for environment clearence for a showroom in posh lucrative area..but on all the occassion, after exhausting days playing political entourage, the summons came late, to anonymous suites. all the men, old enough to be her father, hadn’t hesitated despite her mangalsutra. But they *had* listened to her request not to record when she would masterbate them for their fragile old body and eyes of a top beuracrat or used condoms when she insisted to one of those powerful figgure in political corridor, signed the papers afterwards without any drama, while she hastily dressed, and ordered their drivers to drop her discreetly near home. Transactional. Degrading. Necessary to escape woods. The rest? Pure embellishment. Fuel for Shoaib’s weekend fantasies. She had zero intention of fulfilling that promise. The amendment was signed; his leverage evaporated Saturday morning with a sudden "family crisis".
He pushed open the apartment door, the cool air hitting him like a blessing. "Sheila?" Silence answered him. He kicked off his ruined shoes, leaving dusty prints on the polished floor. The bedroom door was ajar, light spilling out. He shuffled towards it, drawn by the faint, sharp smell of citrus and alcohol.
Inside, Sheila stood before the full-length mirror, utterly absorbed. She wore a sleeveless noodle strap blouse, and a siphon saree shimmering cobalt dress Kunal hadn't seen before. Her back was to him. One arm was raised, fingers deftly smoothing deodorant stick over the smooth, bare skin of her armpit. The muscles in her shoulder flexed. She didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him standing there, sweat-stained and defeated.
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"Traffic was hell," Kunal rasped, his voice thick with the dust and frustration coating his throat. "Absolute hellhole. Took forty minutes just from Marine Drive. The taxi AC died halfway..." He trailed off. The rhythmic *shhhk-shhhk* of the deodorant stick against her skin was the only sound. The sharp, floral-chemical scent of the deodorant filled the small space, mingling unpleasantly with his own stale sweat. "Sheila? Did you hear me?"
"Hmm." Sheila lowered her arm, examining the smooth, hairless skin critically. She tilted her head, catching the light on her jawline. The saree sparkled faintly like crushed sapphires. Kunal watched a single bead of moisture trace a path down her spine before disappearing beneath the fabric. He felt invisible, a ghost in his own hallway.
"Traffic was hell," Kunal repeated, louder this time, stepping into the bedroom doorway. The scent of her expensive deodorant – something floral and aggressively clean – warred with the damp, earthy smell clinging to him. "Absolute hellhole. AC died. Forty minutes crawling through that mess." He gestured vaguely behind him, towards the choked city. She picked up a silver tube of lipstick, unscrewed it with a precise click, and leaned closer to the mirror, her focus absolute.
Kunal shuffled towards the ensuite bathroom, peeling off his sweat-stained jacket. The cool tiles felt good under his socks. He splashed lukewarm water on his face, the grit stinging his eyes. When he looked up, dripping, Sheila’s reflection was still framed in the mirror behind him. She was smoothing the lipstick expertly, the color a bold, dangerous red. "Going somewhere?" he asked, toweling his face roughly.
"Hmm." The sound was dismissive, automatic. She blotted her lips on a tissue, leaving a perfect crimson kiss-print. Kunal watched her pluck an invisible lint fleck from her saree’s shimmering fabric. "Shoaib’s in town," she stated, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror. Her gaze was cool, assessing, like she was inspecting merchandise. "Dinner meeting. Potential investor." She turned, the saree whispering disobediently, and picked up a small clutch purse from the dresser. "Crucial for the boutique."
Kunal’s stomach clenched. Shoaib. The name tasted like spoiled milk. Tall, perpetually tanned Shoaib with his easy laugh and imported watches. The investor who always seemed to be "in town" whenever Sheila needed "urgent" consultations. Kunal gripped the damp towel tighter, knuckles whitening. "Dinner? Now? It’s..." He glanced at his own watch, smeared with grime. "...barely past six. What about Soham?"
Sheila snapped her clutch shut with a decisive click. Her eyes flickered over Kunal’s disheveled state – the wilted collar, the dust clinging to his trousers – with barely concealed impatience. "Soham," she enunciated crisply, "is at Mrs. Plunkett’s. Maths tuition. Ends at seven-thirty." She swept past him, the black siphon saree whispering promises Kunal would never hear. The aggressive floral deodorant scent lingered like a taunt. "He’ll be dropped home. dnt be late and finish the dinner early "
Kunal scrambled after her into the living room, desperation loosening his tongue. "Right, Shoaib," he blurted, forcing a chuckle that sounded like gravel in a tin can. "Big investor, eh? Maybe I should tag along? Keep an eye on things? Make sure he doesn't... invest *too* enthusiastically?" He gestured vaguely, hoping the feeble joke masked the gnawing suspicion.
Sheila paused near the hallway mirror, adjusting a stray curl. A slow, incredulous smile spread across her freshly painted lips. "You?" she echoed, her voice dripping with amused condescension. She turned fully, her black siphon saree catching the light like dark water. "Kunal Sarkar, chaperone? Protecting me from the big, bad Shoaib?" Her laugh was a short, sharp bark, devoid of warmth. "Darling, please. You'd spend the entire dinner sweating into your napkin and stammering about monsoon forecasts."
She stepped closer, invading his space. The aggressive floral deodorant overwhelmed Kunal's senses, a sharp contrast to his own stale sweat. Her eyes, sharp and mocking, raked over him from his dusty shoes to his damp, thinning hair. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that vibrated with cruel amusement. "Even if," she hissed, the words precise and cutting, "Shoaib insists I see the 'view' from his attached bedroom suite, and fucks me dry against his imported silk curtains... you'll just sit there at the dining table, nursing your lukewarm soup, praying it ends quickly. Or maybe you'll sneak off to the lobby and call your mommy to complain?" A cruel smirk played on her lips. "You won't have the balls to step in. Not even if you hear me moaning at full volume through the door. Not even if I come back limping, struggling to walk straight after he's finished pounding me raw..." She paused, tilting her head, her gaze boring into his. "Hoping I didn't limp *too* noticeably when I came back for your mommy to understand."
Kunal felt the words land like physical blows. His face burned, a mixture of humiliation and impotent fury. He wanted to shout, to grab her shoulders, to shake her. Instead, he stared at the intricate pattern of her saree, the cobalt shimmer suddenly looking like prison bars. His throat tightened, choking off any retort. He could only manage a strangled sound, a pathetic wheeze escaping his lips. Sheila’s laugh was short, sharp, devoid of any warmth. "Exactly," she stated, the finality in her voice absolute. She straightened, the picture of cool composure, while Kunal felt like a puddle of grime on the polished floor.
But then, something shifted in Sheila’s expression. The cruel amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of something softer, almost weary. Seeing him shrink before her – shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, radiating a palpable misery – seemed to pierce her usual armor. She sighed, a long, slow exhale that deflated some of her aggressive posture. "Kunal," she said, her voice losing its razor edge, becoming almost gentle. She stepped closer again, this time without invasion. Her hand reached out, hesitant at first, then settled lightly on his damp forearm. "Look at me." He flinched but slowly raised his eyes. Hers held a trace of apology now, mixed with exasperation. "That was... too much. I'm sorry. Truly." Her fingers squeezed his arm lightly. "You don't need to worry like this. I *can* take care of myself. Trust me, okay? It's just business. Shoaib talks big, that's all." She offered a small, conciliatory smile. "He’s harmless."
Kunal felt the unexpected warmth of her touch seep through his sleeve. The scent of her aggressive floral deodorant softened against his skin, mingling strangely with the lingering grit and his own dampness. He stared at her, bewildered by the sudden shift. Her apology felt genuine, disarming his simmering anger. A choked sound escaped him, not a wheeze this time, but something closer to a sob caught in his throat. "Sheila..." he managed, his voice thick with unshed tears and confusion. He didn't pull away from her touch.
"Shh," she murmured, stepping fully into him. Her arms slid around his waist, pulling him close against the cool, smooth fabric of her saree. Kunal stiffened for a second, unused to this tenderness, then melted into her embrace. His arms wrapped tentatively around her shoulders, his cheek resting against the top of her head. He inhaled the complex scent – perfume, deodorant, the faint trace of hairspray – and beneath it, the familiar, comforting smell that was uniquely Sheila. The tension bled out of him, replaced by a shaky vulnerability. "It’s okay," she whispered against his chest. "Just trust me. I can handle Shoaib. Handle myself. Always have." Her hand rubbed slow circles on his back. "Harmless talk, that's all it ever is."
Kunal clung tighter, burying his face in her hair. The memory of her cruel words still stung, but this unexpected warmth was a balm. "Mmmph," he mumbled into her scalp. "Just... dinner? Promise?"
"Just dinner," Sheila murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his damp shirt. "Business talk over prawns and wine. Nothing more." She pulled back slightly, cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed away a smear of grime near his temple. "You look exhausted. Go shower. Wash that traffic off."
Kunal nodded, the fight drained out of him. Her sudden tenderness felt like a lifeline. "Your parents," he mumbled, remembering. "They're arriving tonight. For the trip tomorrow. To Meera's for the Puja." The reminder hung between them – a fragile peace offering tied to family duty.
Sheila pulled back slightly, her expression softening further. "I know, Kunal," she said, her thumb tracing the worry lines near his temple. "I haven't forgotten. Dinner won't be long. Shoaib’s flight leaves early tomorrow; he won’t linger." She offered a reassuring smile, squeezing his shoulders. "I'll be back by nine, ten at the absolute latest. Plenty of time to help Mum settle in." Her gaze flickered towards the hallway clock. "Just... go shower. You smell like a monsoon drain."
Kunal shifted his weight, his eyes darting nervously towards the shimmering cobalt saree clinging to her curves. "Sheila... about the dress," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He gestured vaguely towards her neckline, the intricate dbang revealing a hint of cleavage. "It's... stunning. Really. But... my parents? When they arrive tonight? They're... traditional, you know? Mum especially. Seeing you in..." He trailed off, cheeks flushing crimson. "It's just... quite bold for them."
Sheila paused at the doorway, her hand resting on the knob. A flicker of understanding softened her features. "Oh, Kunal," she sighed, a hint of exasperation mixed with affection. "Don't worry your dusty little head." She flashed him a quick, reassuring smile. "I'm not planning a grand entrance in this. It's purely for Shoaib's investor theatrics. I'll change *before* I come back home. Straight back into something respectable for Mum-ji. Promise."
Kunal shifted his weight, the damp towel forgotten in his hands. His brow furrowed slightly. A spark of bewildered defiance, fueled by exhaustion and the lingering sting of her earlier cruelty, flickered. "But... why?" he blurted out, his voice raspy but tinged with genuine confusion. "Why wear... *that*," he gestured vaguely at the shimmering cobalt saree clinging to her curves, "if you have to go through the whole palaver of changing back? Seems like extra hassle." He managed a weak, tongue-in-cheek smile. "Unless Shoaib insists on inspecting the merchandise personally?"
Sheila paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. A slow, enigmatic smile spread across her freshly painted lips – not the cruel smirk from before, but something deeper, more private. It held a hint of amusement, a touch of weary pragmatism, and perhaps a sliver of the sharp-edged reality Kunal usually avoided. Her eyes met his, sharp and knowing. "Oh, Kunal," she murmured, her voice low and surprisingly gentle. "Sometimes, darling, the packaging *is* the product. Especially in boutique business." The smile deepened, a silent commentary on Shoaib, on Kunal’s naivety, on the entire exhausting charade. "First impressions matter. Even," she added, her gaze flickering over his disheveled state, "if they’re just impressions." Without another word, she turned the knob and slipped out into the hallway. The sharp click of her heels echoed briefly on the marble floor before fading, leaving behind only the faint, aggressive floral ghost of her deodorant and Kunal’s profound bewilderment.
Alone in the sudden quiet, Kunal sagged against the doorframe. Relief, thick and unexpected, washed over him. She hadn't exploded. She hadn't twisted his clumsy accusation into another reason for contempt. She'd almost... *understood*. That final enigmatic comment about packaging and impressions felt less like a dismissal and more like a weary acknowledgment of a shared, unspoken game. He pushed off the frame, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Maybe Shoaib *was* just harmless bluster. Maybe Sheila *could* handle herself. The phantom sting of her earlier cruelty lingered, but it was dulled now, buried under the surprising warmth of her touch and the pragmatic strangeness of her exit.
The apartment felt cavernous without Sheila's sharp energy. Kunal shuffled towards the kitchen, the polished floor cool under his socks. His parents. Arriving tonight. For the trip to Meera's tomorrow. The thought propelled him into action. He grabbed a bucket and mop from the utility closet, filling it with lukewarm water and a generous splash of disinfectant. The dusty footprints he'd tracked in earlier became his immediate target. He scrubbed vigorously, the rhythmic swish-swish filling the silence. Each stroke erased a trace of the city's grime, and perhaps, a little of his own humiliation. He moved systematically: wiping down the hallway console table where Sheila had dumped her keys, polishing the brass handle she'd touched, even dusting the framed photo of Soham grinning toothily on his fourth birthday.
The Uber glided to a stop beneath the glittering portico of The Grand Imperial. Sheila stepped out, the cobalt siphon saree catching the valet's appreciative glance. The aggressive floral deodorant felt like a shield against the hotel's opulent chill. Inside, the lobby was a symphony of hushed tones and gleaming marble. Her heels clicked decisively, echoing the frantic rhythm of her thoughts. Mustaq Ali. The name thudded against her ribs like a fist. His latest threat, delivered via a clipped phone call that morning, replayed: *"Final week, Sheila. Settle the principal, or I settle it my way. Your boutique makes nice collateral."* Three years of hemorrhaging cash, hidden behind optimistic spreadsheets and frantic juggling of credit lines. this is something she did not let her parents or even her husband , kunal knew. Shoaib wasn't just a potential investor tonight; he was her lifeline. She needed an extension on the loan *he'd* already given her, plus fresh capital to stall Mustaq's predatory grasp. The sheer impossibility of it tightened her throat.
As the elevator doors slid shut, Sheila automatically adjusted her pallu, pulling the shimmering siphon fabric lower across her collarbones. The cool metal reflection showed a woman radiating brittle confidence. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Kunal’s bewildered question echoed: *"Why wear that if you have to change back?"* Oh, Kunal. Sweet, oblivious Kunal. If only she could tell him the raw calculus. She wore the saree precisely *because* it showcased skin, hinted at curves beneath the dbang. It was ammunition. For Shoaib, whose eyes lingered too long, whose "business dinners" always ended with suggestive murmurs about "nightcaps" in his suite, this was bait. A little catalyst to grease the wheels of agreement. Make him *want* to say yes. The thought curdled her stomach, but desperation was a potent disinfectant. She took a deep breath, the floral deodorant sharp in her nostrils. Packaging *was* the product tonight.
The elevator chimed softly, opening onto the hushed luxury of the executive floor. Sheila strode towards Shoaib’s suite, her heels sinking into plush carpeting. Her earlier mocking words to Kunal flashed unbidden: *"Even if he fucks me dry... you'll do nothing."* A bitter truth, perhaps. But another truth clawed its way up: if Shoaib indeed demanded sex tonight as the price for saving her boutique, she’d have no real choice. Mustaq Ali’s thugs weren't metaphorical. She’d walk into that bedroom. She’d plaster on a smile, use every ounce of charm, every evasion tactic honed over years – feigned headaches, sudden calls about Soham, promises for "next time." But if he insisted? If he pinned her to those imported silk curtains? Her stomach clenched. Gleefully? Never. Resignedly? Absolutely. Survival wasn't pretty. It was a transaction written in sweat and shame, paid in installments of dignity. She’d pay it. For Soham. For the boutique that was her last shred of independence. Kunal’s imagined paralysis wasn't weakness; it was her grim reality. She’d avoid that bed with every weapon she possessed. But she’d climb into it if survival demanded.
A grim chuckle escaped her lips, startlingly loud in the quiet corridor. *Well, Sheila,* she thought wryly, *at least you don’t have to sneak into some mall bathroom stall tonight.* The absurdity was almost comforting. If Shoaib was determined to hump her, he’d likely strip her nude himself. Efficient, really. No frantic changing in cramped public toilets afterward. She could just... get dressed again afterward. Slip back into her respectable salwar kameez right there in his suite. Wipe away the smeared lipstick, smooth her hair, become Sati-Savitri incarnate before stepping back into her role as dutiful wife and daughter-in-law. The image was grotesquely funny: spread-eagled and moaning one minute, demurely folding her hands and asking Kunal’s mother if she needed tea the next. *Legs wide open for exploration,* she mused darkly, *every angle covered.* Shoaib wasn't known for subtlety or restraint. Her smile tightened into a grimace. *Just... please, God,* she silently pleaded, *don’t let him leave me limping.* Kunal noticing *that* would be... complicated. Especially with his parents arriving.
She raised her hand to knock on the heavy suite door, her knuckles hovering inches from the polished wood. The siphon saree felt suddenly heavy, like armor she didn't want to wear. The aggressive floral deodorant seemed cloying now, a desperate shield against the transaction ahead. Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm the frantic flutter in her chest, she rapped twice – sharp, professional taps.
The door swung open almost immediately. Shoaib stood there, already grinning, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He wasn't tall; Sheila always forgot that. But his presence filled the doorway – expensive charcoal suit jacket open over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms dusted with dark hair. His gaze swept over her, lingering appreciatively on the cobalt dbang clinging to her hips, the hint of cleavage revealed by the low pallu. "Sheila! Right on time," he boomed, stepping aside. "Come in, come in. You look... spectacular. Investment-worthy already." His chuckle was low, intimate. The suite beyond was vast, all muted golds and deep blues, dominated by a panoramic city view glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows. A small dining table was set near the window, candles flickering beside covered dishes.
Sheila stepped inside, the plush carpet swallowing her footsteps. The scent of expensive cologne – sandalwood and spice – battled with the lingering floral deodorant she wore. "Shoaib," she smiled, the practiced warmth reaching her eyes. "Thank you. The suite is magnificent." She moved towards the table, projecting calm confidence. "I brought the revised projections. The boutique's Q3 numbers are exceeding..."
Shoaib waved a dismissive hand, his grin widening as he closed the door with a soft click. "Numbers later, Sheila. Relax! First, a drink. Celebrate potential." He strode to the wet bar, pouring a generous splash of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. "Single malt? Your favorite."
Sheila forced a smile, accepting the glass. "Thank you, Shoaib." She took a small, controlled sip, the smoky peat burning her throat. She started towards the dining table again, a deliberate move to anchor the evening in business. "The projections show a clear path to profitability by Q4 if we secure..."
Shoaib intercepted her smoothly. His tumbler clinked onto a side table. Before Sheila could react, his hand slid firmly around her waist – not on the stiff silk of her saree, but beneath the dbang, finding the bare skin of her midriff. His fingers were warm, possessive, digging slightly into the soft flesh above her waistband. "Always rushing to business," he chuckled, his voice thick. He didn't let go. Instead, he applied gentle pressure, guiding her firmly away from the table, deeper into the suite towards the plush seating area near the panoramic windows. "Relax first. Enjoy the view."
Sheila froze mid-step. The contact was electric, unwanted. Her usual repertoire flashed through her mind – the artful twist away, the feigned stumble, the sudden urgent phone call. But Mustaq Ali’s snarled threat echoed louder than her instincts. *Settle the principal, or I settle it my way.* She forced her muscles to unclench. A subtle recoil was instinctive, a slight stiffening in her shoulders, but she didn’t pull away. She let herself be steered. The cool silk of her saree brushed against his forearm as they walked. His thumb rubbed slow circles on her bare skin. "The city looks beautiful tonight," she managed, her voice carefully neutral, devoid of warmth but lacking overt protest. She stared out at the glittering skyline, focusing on a distant blinking antenna light, phthalo blue against the black.
Shoaib chuckled, low and satisfied. He guided her onto a plush velvet sofa facing the windows. He sat close, his thigh pressing firmly against hers through the thin silk. He didn't release her waist. "Beautiful indeed," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her profile rather than the view. He took a slow sip from his tumbler. "Now, Sheila," he said, his tone shifting abruptly to business, though his hand remained possessive. "We can talk. But," he paused, swirling the amber liquid, "I don't have much time tonight. need to meet few folks and got flight tommorow too. Very early." He looked directly at her, his smile sharpening. "So, be concise. What is it you *really* need?"
Sheila’s breath hitched. *Concisely?* Her meticulously crafted proposal – the revised projections, the Q3 surge, the projected Q4 profitability with *just* a little more capital – evaporated like smoke. Panic, cold and sharp, stabbed through her gut. Mustaq Ali’s snarling face flashed behind her eyes. She’d planned a slow build, a logical argument showcasing her competence, proving she wasn’t a charity case. Now, stripped of preamble, her request sounded naked, desperate. "I... Shoaib," she stammered, forcing her voice level. "The boutique is exceeding targets. Q3 numbers are strong." She gestured vaguely towards her discarded bag containing the tablet. "But... unforeseen expenses. Supplier delays... penalties." The lies felt thick on her tongue. "I need... an extension on the existing loan repayment. Just six months. And..." She swallowed hard. "...a small top-up. To cover operational gaps until Q4 profits solidify." She avoided his eyes, staring at the phthalo blue light blinking in the distance.
Shoaib chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. He leaned back, swirling his whisky, his hand still resting possessively on her bare midriff. "Sheila, Sheila," he sighed, shaking his head slowly. "My CA already ran your numbers. Yesterday." He paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air. "The projections? Optimistic. The penalties? Significant." His gaze sharpened, pinning her. "Frankly, darling, the boutique looks less like an investment and more like a... liability." He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. "In fact," he murmured, the words dropping like stones, "I was planning to ask you tonight... for the immediate return of the principal. Twenty-five lakhs. By next week."
Sheila froze. The glittering cityscape blurred. Twenty-five lakhs? Next week? It was impossible. Mustaq Ali’s deadline crashed into Shoaib’s demand, crushing the air from her lungs. Her meticulously rehearsed pitch dissolved into ash. She stared at him, stunned into silence, the practised smile cracking at the edges.
Shoaib watched her reaction with detached amusement. He took another leisurely sip of his whisky, the ice clinking softly. "You know, Sheila," he mused, his gaze drifting deliberately from her face down the cobalt dbang clinging to her hips, "I lose interest in things... terribly fast." He paused, letting the crude implication hang thick in the air like cheap perfume. "Even beautiful things." His eyes flicked back to hers, cold and assessing. "The thrill fades. Especially," he added, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "when the packaging promises more than the product delivers."
Sheila’s spine stiffened. The insult landed like a physical blow. Her boutique. Her desperation. Her *body*. All laid bare as inadequate merchandise. She forced her chin up, meeting his gaze. "Shoaib," she began, her voice tight but controlled, "if you’d just look at the revised—"
"Revised?" Shoaib cut her off, swirling his whisky dismissively. "Sheila, darling, maybe being an entrepreneur isn’t your cup of tea." He leaned closer, his breath warm and smelling of peat smoke. "Some women aren’t built for risk. Better to return home. Be a good Bharatiya nari. Tend to that husband of yours." His eyes flickered with cruel amusement. "He seems... manageable."
Sheila didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, deliberate movement: she rose from the sofa. As she stood, her pallu shifted, slipping lower across her collarbones, intentionally granting him a fuller view of her cleavage beneath the shimmering siphon. She took a step towards him, closing the distance until she stood directly before his seated form. Leaning down, her lips brushed dangerously close to his ear, her whisper low and charged. "Goody-goody? Hardly. And my ass," she murmured, the word deliberate, vulgar, "has been on the line more times than I can count to get here. Risk doesn't scare me."
Shoaib’s detached amusement vanished. His gaze snapped from the exposed skin to her eyes, sharpening with renewed, predatory interest. He leaned forward slightly, a slow, sensuous smile spreading. "Putting that... *ass*... on the line?" he echoed, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. "Doesn't it worry you, Sheila? That putting it out there... might just get it fucked?" His hand lifted, hovering near her hip.
Sheila seized the spark in his eyes. *Mortgage*. The word flashed like neon. She didn’t retreat. Instead, she leaned fractionally closer, her whisper a deliberate rasp against the silence. "Worry? Darling, I didn’t just put it *on* the line. I mortgaged it. To the hilt." She held his gaze, letting the vulgarity hang. "Yes, sometimes it got... fucked. Brutally. Men like you," she added, her tone brittle yet oddly pragmatic, "don’t hand out freebies." Her smile was thin, resigned. "It’s the price of getting out of the woods."
Shoaib’s hand, hovering near her hip, finally landed. Not gently. His fingers dug into the curve of her waist beneath the saree’s dbang, possessive and assessing. His other hand traced the line of her jaw, calloused thumb brushing her lower lip. "Mortgaged," he echoed, a dark chuckle rumbling low in his chest. His eyes, locked on hers, held a predatory gleam. "And tell me, Sheila... did you *enjoy* paying that price?" His thumb pressed down slightly, smudging her lipstick. "Did that tight big ass learn to like the pounding?"
Sheila didn’t pull away. She met his gaze head-on, the resignation in her smile hardening into something flinty. "Enjoy?" Her laugh was short, sharp, devoid of humour. "Darling, think of it like a Fixed Deposit. High yield, painful entry." She leaned infinitesimally closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I don't offer it to Kunal. He wouldn't know what to do with it. Reserved... for emergencies. For men who understand leverage." Her eyes flickered towards the bedroom door, then back to his. "Only when absolutely necessary to get out of the woods."
Shoaib’s predatory grin widened, his thumb tracing the outline of her lips again, smearing the colour further. "An FD? High yield?" He chuckled, low and appreciative. "Practical woman. And tonight? Does tonight feel... necessary?" His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him. The scent of whisky and sandalwood enveloped her. "Is the woods closing in?"
Sheila didn’t flinch. A resignation settled over her features, twisting into a mocking smile – sharp, bitter, yet strangely detached. She met his gaze squarely. "You always wanted to fuck me, didn’t you?" Her voice was flat, devoid of surprise. "From the very first meeting."
Shoaib’s predatory grin widened, unashamed. "Yes," he breathed, fingers tightening on her waist. "From the moment I saw you walk into that investor pitch. That tight ass swaying in that saree... I knew."
Sheila’s mocking smile sharpened. "There are no freebies," she stated flatly. "Two-year extension on the loan. Ten lakhs top-up. Sign the papers tonight." She paused, letting the demand hang. "Then you can have my ass."
Shoaib’s predatory grin faltered slightly. His mouth opened—likely to haggle, to demand concessions—but Sheila cut him off instantly. "No," she snapped, her voice brittle steel. "Every time you’re in town," she continued, the words clipped and pragmatic, "you can have it. But *only* if the papers are signed *now*. Tonight." Her eyes drilled into his. "This isn’t a negotiation, Shoaib. It’s a transaction."
He studied her face—the mocking resignation, the utter lack of pretense. The raw pragmatism was unexpectedly potent. A slow, appreciative smirk replaced his hesitation. "Businesswoman till the end," he murmured, his hand sliding lower, squeezing her ass possessively through the silk. "Fine. Deal." He released her abruptly, striding towards the suite’s sleek desk. He pulled a laptop from a drawer, his fingers tapping rapidly. "Drafting the amendment now. Two-year extension on the principal repayment, ten lakhs additional credit line." He glanced back, his gaze lingering on her hips. "Effective immediately upon my… signature."
Sheila watched him, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Relief warred with revulsion. He typed swiftly, pulling up a standard loan amendment template. "Inspect the terms," he commanded, swiveling the laptop screen towards her. The legalese swam before her eyes, but the key figures were clear: 25 lakhs principal repayment deferred by 24 months, +10 lakhs credit. She scanned it quickly, forcing herself to focus. "Agreed," she breathed, her voice tight. "Fine. Get it printed. My lawyers will draft the final version on stamp paper tomorrow, and we’ll sign it then. Meanwhile," she added firmly, "email that draft to me *now*. Official communication."
Shoaib chuckled, hitting send with a flourish. "Done. But what about the deal sweetener, Sheila?" His gaze was predatory again, lingering on her hips. "Tonight feels... rushed."
Sheila forced a conspiratorial smile. "Patience," she murmured, stepping closer. "This weekend. Soham and Kunal are visiting my sister-in-law in Pune." She leaned in, her whisper brushing his ear. "Whole weekend. No interruptions. Tonight?" She shrugged, a deliberate dismissal. "I need to get back. Kunal’s parents arrived." She gestured towards the bathroom door. "Mind if I change? Can’t greet them in this... packaging."
Shoaib’s grin returned, wider now. "Of course." He waved a dismissive hand towards the bathroom. "Be quick." As Sheila disappeared inside, he turned back to the laptop, printing the amendment confirmation. The lock clicked softly behind her.
Inside the marble expanse, Sheila leaned against the cool door, trembling. *Done.* The email confirmation glowed on her phone screen. Two years. Ten lakhs. Breathing shallowly, she peeled off the treacherous siphon saree like shedding poisoned skin. The cool air hit her bare shoulders. She scrubbed at her smudged lipstick with a hotel towel, the abrasive fabric scbanging her skin raw. From her oversized tote, she pulled out the simple cotton salwar kameez—sky blue, modest cut, Kunal’s mother approved. She dressed swiftly, fingers fumbling on the buttons. The floral deodorant felt suffocating now; she splashed cold water on her face, patting it dry. The reflection showed a strained woman, eyes shadowed but posture rigid. Respectable. *Sati-Savitri incarnate.*
Emerging, she found Shoaib holding a freshly printed sheet. His gaze flickered over her transformation—demure salwar kameez replacing the cobalt temptation—and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Changed your packaging already?" he remarked dryly, handing her the document. "Bit of a downgrade."
Sheila folded the paper crisply, tucking it into her bag. "Practicality," she countered smoothly. "The saree served its purpose." Her smile was tight, professional. "Saturday afternoon work?"
Shoaib's eyes narrowed, assessing her sudden transformation—the modest neckline, the loose fabric hiding curves he'd mentally cataloged moments ago. "Bit sudden, this respectable matron act." His chuckle held an edge. "Worried hubby might sniff the desperation?"
Sheila slung her tote over her shoulder, the printed amendment confirmation safely tucked inside beside her folded cobalt weapon. "Practicality," she repeated, her voice crisp as starched cotton. "The saree opened doors. This," she gestured lightly at her salwar, "keeps them from slamming shut." She offered a tight, transactional smile. "Saturday afternoon. Text me the suite number."
Shoaib leaned against the desk, swirling the dregs of his whisky. "Early bird gets the worm," he murmured, his gaze lingering on the high neckline hiding the skin he’d tasted moments ago. "Or in this case... the ass." His chuckle was low, predatory. "Don’t forget the packaging."
Sheila paused at the suite door, her hand on the brass handle. She didn’t turn. "Packaging?" Her voice was cool silk. "It’s reusable. Unlike excuses." She glanced back over her shoulder, a flicker of dark amusement in her eyes.
Shoaib snorted, swirling his whisky. "Excuses? Like rushing back to hubby and in laws tonight? I won't hear that whine on Saturday, Sheila. No sudden 'family emergencies'."
Sheila turned fully now, leaning against the heavy door. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips – not warm, but sharp-edged, acknowledging a shared, ugly truth. "Family emergencies?" Her laugh was a soft, bitter scbang. "Darling, look at me. Married. Kid." She gestured loosely at her demure salwar. "Did that ever stop any of the others? The investors ? The suppliers? The politicians?" Her gaze locked onto his, utterly devoid of illusion. "Not one of those assholes hesitated. Not one spared me because I wore a mangalsutra." Her voice dropped, thick with dark pragmatism. "They stripped me nude. drained me dry. Only *then* did they leave." She shrugged, the movement economical. "I don't expect you to be different, Shoaib. Why would you? You paid."
Shoaib raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued now. He gestured vaguely at her transformed appearance. "So... camouflage? Every day? Slip into this... respectable matron act?" He took a step closer, peering at her face. "To keep that gullible husband of yours blissfully ignorant? Maintain the family balance?"
Sheila paused, her hand still on the cool brass door handle. A harsh, brittle laugh escaped her. "Camouflage?" She turned fully, meeting his gaze dead-on. "No. Only when absolutely necessary." Her voice dropped to a low, icy murmur. "Like when I have to be nude. Riding a politician in his bedroom." She watched the flicker of surprise in his eyes. "While my husband waits downstairs in the lobby. Patiently. Thinking my 'meeting' is running late." Her smile was a razor-thin slash. "That’s when I wear the camouflage *afterwards*. To walk out looking like I just reviewed spreadsheets." She shrugged, the gesture utterly devoid of emotion. "Not balance, Shoaib. Damage control."
She didn’t wait for his reaction. She turned the handle, pulled open the heavy door, and stepped into the plush hallway. She didn’t glance back. The soft thud of the door closing behind her echoed like a tomb seal. Her heels clicked a sharp, rapid tattoo on the marble floor as she strode towards the elevators, the folded amendment confirmation a heavy secret in her bag. Her face, reflected in the mirrored elevator doors, was a mask of weary pragmatism, the demure salwar kameez a stark contrast to the raw transaction sealed moments before.
Inside the elevator, descending, Sheila leaned against the cool metal wall. A sudden, bone-deep dryness clawed at her throat, a physical echo of the emotional dehydration the encounter had inflicted. She felt parched, hollowed out. *Water*. She needed water desperately. The hotel bar was just off the lobby. She could grab a bottle. Kunal and his parents could wait five more minutes. She needed to wash the taste of lies and Shoaib’s cheap whisky from her mouth. The story she’d spun – the politicians, the nude negotiations, the husband waiting obliviously downstairs – was mostly fiction, tailored to feed Shoaib’s predatory ego and make her seem like a hardened player. Mostly. The core truth, the bitter kernel she’d wrapped in lurid fantasy, was that yes, on two -three desperate occasions, chasing a crucial clearance permit stuck in bureaucratic hell,or greasing the wheels for a zone approval for one of the showroom.when she chased a MP for environment clearence for a showroom in posh lucrative area..but on all the occassion, after exhausting days playing political entourage, the summons came late, to anonymous suites. all the men, old enough to be her father, hadn’t hesitated despite her mangalsutra. But they *had* listened to her request not to record when she would masterbate them for their fragile old body and eyes of a top beuracrat or used condoms when she insisted to one of those powerful figgure in political corridor, signed the papers afterwards without any drama, while she hastily dressed, and ordered their drivers to drop her discreetly near home. Transactional. Degrading. Necessary to escape woods. The rest? Pure embellishment. Fuel for Shoaib’s weekend fantasies. She had zero intention of fulfilling that promise. The amendment was signed; his leverage evaporated Saturday morning with a sudden "family crisis".
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