Me(Sonalika) - How I love my Father in law(3 Videos) - Scene 9 - Gold*

[ashuezy2]

Scene 6

 I stood at the door, my arms slightly open, ready to receive the warmth of my husband after five days. I waited for his eyes to soften, for him to drop the bags and pull me into a hug, to smell my hair, to whisper that he missed me.

Instead, Lokesh walked right past me like I was a piece of furniture. His eyes were glued to Riya. He was carrying her trolley bag, guiding her over the threshold like she was a delicate flower and the floor of our house was too rough for her heels.

"Sonalika," he barked over his shoulder, not even looking at me. "Prepare the guest room. Riya needs to freshen up. Put fresh sheets. Fast."

The command hit me like a slap. I wasn't the wife; I was the housekeeping staff. I watched him guide her to the living room, offering her water, while I stood there with my empty arms.

I went to the guest room. My hands shook as I spread the white sheets. A minute later, Lokesh brought her luggage in and left us alone. "Make yourself comfortable, Riya," he said, his voice dripping with sugar. Then he left to talk to his parents.

It was just me and her. The silence was loud. She sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly to test the mattress, looking around with a critical eye, like a tourist checking into a budget hotel.

I had to know. "Where are you from, Riya?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She looked at me, kicking off her heels. "Army family. Dad was a Colonel. I’m the only child."
My stomach tightened. "And your parents? Where do they live?"

She shrugged, a casual movement of her shoulder. "They passed away a few years back. Accident."

The timeline clicked into place like a lock snapping shut. A few years back. exactly when Lokesh had suddenly decided to move to Gurgaon permanently. He hadn't moved for a job; he had moved to become her family. He had filled the void left by her parents. I wasn't just careless; I was blind. I had let my husband walk out of this house and straight into another woman’s grief... and her bed.

She stood up and walked to the attached bathroom, peeking inside. She frowned. "There is no bathtub?"
I blinked. "Bathtub? No... we don't have a bathtub. We just got the shower installed a few years ago."

She sighed, a small sound of disappointment. "Oh well. I guess I'll manage." She turned back to me. "I need to change. This skirt is killing me. I hope you don't mind?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She didn't ask me to leave. She just started unbuttoning her shirt.

I stood there, paralyzed. My jaw dropped slightly. She peeled off the shirt. Beneath it, she was wearing a set of deep purple, lacy lingerie. It looked expensive—silk and satin that shimmered in the tubelight. It held her breasts perfectly, pushing them up.

Then she unzipped her skirt and let it drop. The matching purple panties were tiny, barely covering anything. Her body was different from mine. I was soft, curved, voluptuous—a "village beauty" as Babuji called me. She was toned, gym-sculpted, long-legged. She looked like the women in the magazines Lokesh used to hide in his bag.

I felt a sudden, burning need to defend myself. To prove I wasn't just a village girl. "I... I also have lingerie like this," I mumbled, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. My underwear was simple cotton, bought from the local market.

Riya paused. She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my sari, my simple blouse, my bare waist. A small, pitying smile played on her lips. "I hope you do," she said softly.
It wasn't a compliment. It was a mockery. She had exposed my insecurity without even trying. She knew I was the plain rice to her spicy biryani.

She opened her suitcase and pulled out a towel. Then, she reached behind her back and unhooked the purple bra. It fell away.

I couldn't look away. Her breasts were heavy, round, and pale. Her nipples were dark and hardened from the air conditioning, standing erect. She didn't cover them immediately. she walked to the mirror, checking her reflection, adjusting her hair, letting her breasts bounce slightly with her steps.

She grabbed a loose t-shirt and pulled it over her head, covering her chest, but she didn't remove the panties. She just pulled a pair of silk pajama pants over her smooth, waxed legs. She looked comfortable. She looked like she owned the room. She looked like a woman who had nothing to hide because she had already been seen by the only man who mattered here—my husband.

I closed the main door of the guest room to give her privacy, though she clearly didn't need it. I lingered inside, feeling like I should ask if she needed water, or maybe I just wanted to suffer more.

"Let me know if you want anything," I whispered. "I will be in my room."
She looked at me, her face suddenly softening into something that looked like guilt. "You know," she said, her voice dropping. "I know you are Lokesh's wife. And I know you have been taking care of his parents here. Lokesh is very lucky to have you. He talks about you a lot..."

She stopped abruptly, biting her lip. He talks about you. Not "He misses you." Not "He loves you." He talks about me like a project. Like the caretaker of his parents.
I nodded slowly, backing away. "I see."

I walked out. The truth was screaming in my head. Yes. She is fucking him. She wasn't just a colleague. The way she moved, the way she undressed, the way she spoke—it was intimate. She had been in his bed. She had moaned his name. She had probably worn that purple lingerie for him last night in Gurgaon while I was sleeping alone in this cold house.

I walked back to our bedroom—the master bedroom. Lokesh was lying on the bed, shoes off, scrolling on his phone. He didn't look up when I entered.

"Lokesh," I said, my voice weak.
"Sonalika," he cut me off, still looking at the screen. "Make breakfast. Poha and tea. And listen—there is an office guest in our home. Make sure we welcome her properly. Don't embarrass me with your village ways. Make it nice."

He didn't ask how I was. He didn't notice the tears swimming in my eyes. He just gave an order. To serve his mistress.
I turned around and walked out. Rage mixed with the grief in my chest. I wasn't his wife anymore. I was his servant. But I wasn't just a servant.

I looked down the hallway towards the back room. Babuji's room. I wanted to run to him. Lokesh had replaced me with Riya. Fine. But I knew someone who hadn't replaced me. Someone who looked at me like I was a important, not a maid. I was the bahu. I was the prize of this house. And if my husband didn't want to claim me, his father was waiting with open arms... and a hungry mouth.

I wiped my tears. The kitchen could wait. Babuji needed his medicine.