She(Avantika) had burned her world to get to him -Romantic- (1 Video) - Scene 4*

[ashuezy2]

Scene 5

September arrived, bringing a strange, dry heat. After the "Heatwave" night, Girish didn't go back to moping. He went the other way. He went crazy.

I would hear him at 3:00 AM, moving canvases, mixing paints, scrubbing brushes. The smell of chemicals became so strong it leaked into my flat upstairs. He wasn't waiting by the phone anymore. He was possessed. He shaved. He started wearing clean shirts. He looked sharp, but his eyes were scary. They were focused, like a sniper waiting for a shot.

One evening, I found an envelope slid under my door. An expensive invitation card with gold letters. "HIDDEN STORMS: A Solo Exhibition by Girish Roy." Venue: The Lodhi Art Gallery.

I went downstairs. Girish was smoking, leaning against the railing. "You got a show?" I asked. "At The Lodhi? That’s big time."

He smirked. It wasn't a happy smile. It was a predator's smile. "I needed to get the work out of my head, Sarika. It was rotting in here."

"Is she coming?" I asked.

He flicked ash over the railing. "She’s the Chief Guest."

I wore my best kurta and took a cab to the gallery. The Lodhi is fancy—marble floors, freezing air conditioning, and waiters serving wine in crystal glasses. The crowd was full of rich aunties with pearls and men in expensive suits. And there was Girish. He looked out of place in a suit, but he played the part. He was charming them, but his eyes kept darting to the entrance.

I walked around looking at the paintings. They were all dark and stormy. Then I saw the centerpiece. It was huge. Four feet by six feet. The title card read: "THE ABHISARIKA (Study in Red)."

I stopped breathing. It was the painting from the morning after the storm. The woman in the red saree. She was soaking wet. The fabric was painted so it looked translucent, sticking to her skin. You could clearly see the dark circles of her nipples through the red paint. Her head was thrown back, mouth open in a scream. It wasn't a scream of fear. It was a scream of pure, raw pleasure. The red paint at the bottom looked like it was dripping, wet and messy.

It was a painting of her climax.

Suddenly, the room went quiet. The glass doors opened, and Avantika walked in next to her husband, Mr. Singh.

She looked like a queen. She was wearing a heavy gold and cream saree with a high neck blouse. Not an inch of skin was showing except her face and hands. She was the perfect, polite wife. She was smiling, waving at people. Then her eyes locked onto Girish across the room, and for a second, she looked terrified.

Her husband, Mr. Singh, was a large man with a loud laugh. He shook Girish’s hand violently. "Young man! I’ve heard great things. My wife tells me you are quite the talent."

"She has a good eye," Girish said, his voice smooth. He didn't let go of the husband's hand. He looked right at Avantika, undressing her with his eyes.

"Show us your best piece," Mr. Singh boomed.

"This way, Sir," Girish said, leading them straight to "The Abhisarika."

I watched Avantika’s face. She looked at the canvas and stopped breathing. She saw herself. She saw the wet red saree. She saw the way her back was arched—a position she had been in on a cheap mattress, screaming his name while he wrecked her.

Her face went pale, then instantly flushed deep red.

"Powerful," Mr. Singh said, nodding. "Very... raw. It feels violent."

"It's about hunger, Sir," Girish said, stepping closer to Avantika so he was almost touching her shoulder. "About a woman who is starving. Look at her mouth."

Avantika flinched.

"It’s a bit... vulgar, isn't it?" she managed to say, her voice tight.

"Is it?" Girish asked, tilting his head. "I think it's honest. Look at how the fabric sticks to her thighs. She's soaking wet. She's desperate for it."

Mr. Singh leaned in closer to the painting. "Who is the model?"

Girish looked dead in Avantika's eyes. He dropped his voice so it was low and dirty. "A memory. Someone I used to know during the monsoon. She was wild. She liked to be used."

Avantika gripped her clutch so hard her knuckles turned white. She was trapped. Girish was describing their sex life right in front of her husband.

"Notice the arch of the spine," Girish continued, tracing the air with his finger. "She was begging here. She wanted me to leave marks. She wanted to be ruined."

Mr. Singh clapped Girish on the shoulder, completely clueless. "I like it. It has energy. How much?"

Avantika turned to her husband sharply. "Vikram, no. It’s too dark for the house."

"Nonsense," Mr. Singh laughed. "It will look excellent in the study. I’ll take it."

He bought it. The husband bought the portrait of his wife’s orgasm.

A red sticker went up next to the painting. SOLD.

The party moved on. I saw Girish standing alone in the corner, watching Avantika leaving with her husband. She looked back once. Her eyes weren't cold anymore. They were blazing. She was furious, terrified, and... turned on.

I walked up to Girish. "You're sick," I whispered. "You just sold her naked soul to her husband."

Girish took a sip of champagne, looking calm. "She said I was just an escape," he said softly. "She said I wasn't real. Well, now I'm hanging on her wall. Every time she walks into his study, she's going to remember my hands on her."

He smiled, and it was the coldest thing I'd ever seen. "Now I'm her reality."