22-02-2026, 12:55 PM
Chapter 12: The Crisis
Three weeks later, the past resurfaced.
Riya was having lunch with a friend when she saw Rasel across the restaurant. He was with a woman—young, pretty, hanging on his every word. For a moment, their eyes met. Rasel's expression hardened, then he looked away.
That evening, Riya received a Facebook message from an unknown account: I see you've moved on. Found another man to disappoint.
She blocked the account, but the message unsettled her. When she told Rohan, his protective instincts flared.
"Do you want me to talk to him?"
"No. That would just make it worse."
But Rasel wasn't finished. The next day, flowers arrived at Riya's office with a card: Thinking of what I lost.
Her colleagues raised eyebrows. Riya threw the flowers in the trash, but the damage was done. Rumors began circulating—that she was having an affair with a married man (technically true, though widowed), that she had driven Rasel to divorce with her demands.
The gossip reached her parents. Her mother called, her voice tight with disappointment.
"People are talking, Riya. About you and Rohan. They say..."
"I don't care what they say," Riya interrupted, though she did. Deeply.
"That's the problem. You never cared about reputation. That's why..."
"Why my marriage failed?" Riya finished, anger rising. "No, Amma. My marriage failed because Rasel was a small man who couldn't handle having a real woman."
She hung up, trembling. For the first time, she understood the cost of her relationship with Rohan. In Dhaka society, a widow could remarry with sympathy. A divorcee having an affair was a scandal.
That night, when Rohan came over, she was crying.
"I can't do this," she sobbed. "The rumors, the looks... my parents..."
He held her, his arms strong around her. "Then we'll go public. We'll tell everyone we're in a relationship. That we're serious."
"And say what? That we started sleeping together when my parents were out of town? That you're a known...?"
"Say whatever you want," he said gently. "Or say nothing. Let them talk. What matters is us."
His certainty calmed her. "You really don't care what people think?"
"I care that you're hurting. I don't care about the rest."
They decided to go public in a low-key way—attending a friend's wedding together, being seen as a couple. The rumors would either die or be confirmed, but at least they wouldn't be hiding.
The wedding was the following weekend. As Riya dressed, she felt nervous but determined. She chose a conservative but elegant sari, wanting to present an image of respectability.
Rohan arrived to pick her up, looking handsome in a traditional panjabi. When he saw her, his eyes darkened with appreciation.
"You're stunning."
"Thank you." She took a deep breath. "Ready?"
He offered his arm. "Always."
Three weeks later, the past resurfaced.
Riya was having lunch with a friend when she saw Rasel across the restaurant. He was with a woman—young, pretty, hanging on his every word. For a moment, their eyes met. Rasel's expression hardened, then he looked away.
That evening, Riya received a Facebook message from an unknown account: I see you've moved on. Found another man to disappoint.
She blocked the account, but the message unsettled her. When she told Rohan, his protective instincts flared.
"Do you want me to talk to him?"
"No. That would just make it worse."
But Rasel wasn't finished. The next day, flowers arrived at Riya's office with a card: Thinking of what I lost.
Her colleagues raised eyebrows. Riya threw the flowers in the trash, but the damage was done. Rumors began circulating—that she was having an affair with a married man (technically true, though widowed), that she had driven Rasel to divorce with her demands.
The gossip reached her parents. Her mother called, her voice tight with disappointment.
"People are talking, Riya. About you and Rohan. They say..."
"I don't care what they say," Riya interrupted, though she did. Deeply.
"That's the problem. You never cared about reputation. That's why..."
"Why my marriage failed?" Riya finished, anger rising. "No, Amma. My marriage failed because Rasel was a small man who couldn't handle having a real woman."
She hung up, trembling. For the first time, she understood the cost of her relationship with Rohan. In Dhaka society, a widow could remarry with sympathy. A divorcee having an affair was a scandal.
That night, when Rohan came over, she was crying.
"I can't do this," she sobbed. "The rumors, the looks... my parents..."
He held her, his arms strong around her. "Then we'll go public. We'll tell everyone we're in a relationship. That we're serious."
"And say what? That we started sleeping together when my parents were out of town? That you're a known...?"
"Say whatever you want," he said gently. "Or say nothing. Let them talk. What matters is us."
His certainty calmed her. "You really don't care what people think?"
"I care that you're hurting. I don't care about the rest."
They decided to go public in a low-key way—attending a friend's wedding together, being seen as a couple. The rumors would either die or be confirmed, but at least they wouldn't be hiding.
The wedding was the following weekend. As Riya dressed, she felt nervous but determined. She chose a conservative but elegant sari, wanting to present an image of respectability.
Rohan arrived to pick her up, looking handsome in a traditional panjabi. When he saw her, his eyes darkened with appreciation.
"You're stunning."
"Thank you." She took a deep breath. "Ready?"
He offered his arm. "Always."
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