8 hours ago
Chapter 4: Riya's Wounds
While Rohan planned his seduction, Riya lay in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling of the room she had left as a bride and returned to as a divorcee. The irony wasn't lost on her—the full circle of disappointment.
Her marriage to Rasel had begun with such promise. He was handsome in a conventional way, from a good family, with a respectable engineering career. Their courtship was chaste by Dhaka standards—held hands, a few stolen kisses, endless conversations about their future.
The wedding night was the first fracture. In the luxury hotel suite, surrounded by rose petals and expectation, Rasel fumbled with her elaborate bridal wear.
"You're so..." he kept saying, his hands trembling. "So much."
When they were finally naked, his eyes widened at the sight of her body. Riya had always been voluptuous—her curves arriving early and generously. In college, she endured teasing and unwanted attention. In university, she learned to use her body as both armor and weapon, dressing modestly to deflect attention while knowing exactly the effect she created.
But with Rasel on their wedding night, her body became a problem.
"You're..." he said again, staring.
"Beautiful?" she tried, offering the word like a gift.
He didn't answer, just mounted her with an urgency that felt like panic. His penetration was brief, awkward, over in minutes. He climaxed almost immediately, leaving her untouched and confused.
"I'm tired," he said, rolling away. "The wedding was long."
Thus began the pattern of their sexual life: rushed, unsatisfying encounters that left Riya feeling more alone than before. Rasel developed performance anxiety that became self-fulfilling prophecy. The more he worried about disappointing her, the quicker he finished.
"Are you..." he would ask afterward, always the same question. "Did you...?"
She learned to fake pleasure, to make sounds that suggested satisfaction she never felt. She bought books, suggested techniques, tried to initiate at different times. Nothing worked.
Then the accusations began.
"Who were you talking to?" Rasel would demand when she returned from work.
"A client."
"Male client?"
"Rasel, it's my job."
He began checking her phone, questioning her about male colleagues, interpreting polite conversation as flirtation. The real issue, Riya understood later, was that her body—which should have been their shared pleasure—became a symbol of his inadequacy. Men looked at her. Therefore, she must want them to look. Therefore, she must be unfaithful.
The night she asked for a divorce, he struck her. Not hard, but the shock of it reverberated more deeply than any pain.
"You whore," he hissed. "You've never been satisfied with me."
She left that night with a single suitcase, returning to her parents' home in shame and relief. The divorce proceedings were ugly, with Rasel's family spreading rumors about her character. Her parents, though supportive, carried the weight of social judgment.
"You'll marry again," her mother said with forced optimism. "A better man."
Riya doubted it. Not because better men didn't exist, but because she had begun to doubt her own capacity for trust. Her body, which should have been a source of pleasure, had become a battlefield.
Then came Rohan.
From their first encounter in the elevator, she felt the difference. His eyes held appreciation without leering, confidence without aggression. When he looked at her body, it felt like admiration rather than judgment.
Their growing friendship became a lifeline. He listened without offering unsolicited advice, shared his own grief without demanding she manage his emotions. When he mentioned his loneliness after Anika's death, she recognized the echo of her own isolation.
Late-night WhatsApp exchanges became her secret pleasure. She found herself smiling at her phone, anticipating his messages. The gradual shift to flirtation felt natural, like water finding its level.
Riya: Another Friday alone. Dhaka is full of people but sometimes feels empty.
Rohan: Empty can be comfortable. Too full is overwhelming.
Riya: You think so?
Rohan: I know so. Some hungers are better than feasts.
The double meaning thrilled her. For the first time since her marriage ended, she felt desired rather than resented.
When her parents planned their trip to Sylhet, part of her dreaded five days alone. Another part—a part she barely acknowledged—felt anticipation. When Rohan offered to help with her presentation, then suggested dinner at his place, she agreed with a quickening pulse she hadn't felt in years.
The night before their meeting, she stood before her mirror, examining the body that had caused so much trouble. Full breasts that Rasel had found intimidating, hips he called excessive, the lips he said were "too sensual."
For the first time, she saw these features not as flaws but as possibilities.
While Rohan planned his seduction, Riya lay in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling of the room she had left as a bride and returned to as a divorcee. The irony wasn't lost on her—the full circle of disappointment.
Her marriage to Rasel had begun with such promise. He was handsome in a conventional way, from a good family, with a respectable engineering career. Their courtship was chaste by Dhaka standards—held hands, a few stolen kisses, endless conversations about their future.
The wedding night was the first fracture. In the luxury hotel suite, surrounded by rose petals and expectation, Rasel fumbled with her elaborate bridal wear.
"You're so..." he kept saying, his hands trembling. "So much."
When they were finally naked, his eyes widened at the sight of her body. Riya had always been voluptuous—her curves arriving early and generously. In college, she endured teasing and unwanted attention. In university, she learned to use her body as both armor and weapon, dressing modestly to deflect attention while knowing exactly the effect she created.
But with Rasel on their wedding night, her body became a problem.
"You're..." he said again, staring.
"Beautiful?" she tried, offering the word like a gift.
He didn't answer, just mounted her with an urgency that felt like panic. His penetration was brief, awkward, over in minutes. He climaxed almost immediately, leaving her untouched and confused.
"I'm tired," he said, rolling away. "The wedding was long."
Thus began the pattern of their sexual life: rushed, unsatisfying encounters that left Riya feeling more alone than before. Rasel developed performance anxiety that became self-fulfilling prophecy. The more he worried about disappointing her, the quicker he finished.
"Are you..." he would ask afterward, always the same question. "Did you...?"
She learned to fake pleasure, to make sounds that suggested satisfaction she never felt. She bought books, suggested techniques, tried to initiate at different times. Nothing worked.
Then the accusations began.
"Who were you talking to?" Rasel would demand when she returned from work.
"A client."
"Male client?"
"Rasel, it's my job."
He began checking her phone, questioning her about male colleagues, interpreting polite conversation as flirtation. The real issue, Riya understood later, was that her body—which should have been their shared pleasure—became a symbol of his inadequacy. Men looked at her. Therefore, she must want them to look. Therefore, she must be unfaithful.
The night she asked for a divorce, he struck her. Not hard, but the shock of it reverberated more deeply than any pain.
"You whore," he hissed. "You've never been satisfied with me."
She left that night with a single suitcase, returning to her parents' home in shame and relief. The divorce proceedings were ugly, with Rasel's family spreading rumors about her character. Her parents, though supportive, carried the weight of social judgment.
"You'll marry again," her mother said with forced optimism. "A better man."
Riya doubted it. Not because better men didn't exist, but because she had begun to doubt her own capacity for trust. Her body, which should have been a source of pleasure, had become a battlefield.
Then came Rohan.
From their first encounter in the elevator, she felt the difference. His eyes held appreciation without leering, confidence without aggression. When he looked at her body, it felt like admiration rather than judgment.
Their growing friendship became a lifeline. He listened without offering unsolicited advice, shared his own grief without demanding she manage his emotions. When he mentioned his loneliness after Anika's death, she recognized the echo of her own isolation.
Late-night WhatsApp exchanges became her secret pleasure. She found herself smiling at her phone, anticipating his messages. The gradual shift to flirtation felt natural, like water finding its level.
Riya: Another Friday alone. Dhaka is full of people but sometimes feels empty.
Rohan: Empty can be comfortable. Too full is overwhelming.
Riya: You think so?
Rohan: I know so. Some hungers are better than feasts.
The double meaning thrilled her. For the first time since her marriage ended, she felt desired rather than resented.
When her parents planned their trip to Sylhet, part of her dreaded five days alone. Another part—a part she barely acknowledged—felt anticipation. When Rohan offered to help with her presentation, then suggested dinner at his place, she agreed with a quickening pulse she hadn't felt in years.
The night before their meeting, she stood before her mirror, examining the body that had caused so much trouble. Full breasts that Rasel had found intimidating, hips he called excessive, the lips he said were "too sensual."
For the first time, she saw these features not as flaws but as possibilities.
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