Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Yet Nimrat knew the truth Meera had laid bare: once the CBI tagged Yasim as a criminal whose assets were proceeds of crime, none of that paper perfection would matter. The moment the provisional attachment order came down, every linked account would freeze. Suppliers would stop deliveries. Employees would whisper. Clients – the high-society women who paid lakhs for a single anarkali – would quietly cancel orders and move to competitors. The brand Nimrat had named after her late husband’s memory would survive the legal battle perhaps, but the reputational haemorrhage would be fatal. Headlines would scream “Designer Boutique Linked to Underworld Funding” and the damage would be irreversible.
 
She paced the office until her heels ached, staring at balance sheets until the numbers blurred. She thought of Simran – her daughter already carrying the quiet weight of her own secrets – and felt a fresh wave of panic. What if this scandal reached Chandigarh? What if Ravi found out? What if Simran’s fragile recovery shattered under the public glare?
 
Two days passed in slow agony. Meals went untouched. Sleep came in snatches haunted by nightmares of locked gates and flashing cameras. The word “disciple” looped in her mind like a mantra she didn’t understand. Disciple to whom? To what? She was a 50-year-old businesswoman, not some wide-eyed seeker. Yet here she was, pinning her entire future on a stranger named Maan Singh.
 
Then, on Monday morning at 7:42 AM, her phone buzzed.
 
A single message from an unknown number – but she knew it was Meera:
 
“Maan Ji is coming to Mumbai tomorrow. Be ready. We meet at the same suite, Taj. 8:30 PM sharp. I’ll pick you up from your hotel at 8:00. Don’t worry.”
 
Nimrat’s heart slammed against her ribs. She stared at the screen for a full minute before her fingers moved.
 
She dialled Meera immediately.
 
Meera answered on the second ring, voice calm and warm as ever.
 
“Nimrat?”
 
“I just got your message,” Nimrat said, words tumbling out. “Tomorrow? Already? I…. What do I do? What should I say to him? I don’t even know—”
 
“Shhh,” Meera soothed. “Breathe. Nothing has changed. We meet in the same Presidential Suite tomorrow evening. I’ll come to your hotel at exactly 8:00 PM to pick you up. Wear something comfortable but elegant – you’ll know when you see it. And Nimrat… don’t worry. He already knows why you’re coming. He’s agreed to see you. That’s more than most get.”
 
Nimrat exhaled shakily. “Okay. Okay. Thank you.”
 
After the call ended, she sat on the edge of her bed in the Delhi hotel suite she’d booked to avoid the empty house, and the word “disciple” returned like an unwelcome guest.
 
She opened her wardrobe – half business attire, half samples from her latest collection. A part of her brain, the practical designer part, kicked in automatically. What does one wear to meet a mysterious “guru of life lessons” who holds the power to save (or claim) your entire world?
 
She pulled out options and laid them across the bed like battle plans:
 
- A classic black saree with silver zari border – safe, sophisticated, authoritative. But too formal? Too much like armour?
 
- A deep emerald Anarkali suit, heavily embroidered, floor-length – regal, feminine, expensive. Would it scream “trying too hard”?
 
- A simple cream silk saree with minimal gota-patti work – understated elegance, the kind she wore to board meetings. Approachable. Vulnerable.
 
- A wine-red georgette saree, the same shade she’d worn that night in Mumbai – the one Meera had kissed her in. Something about it felt… significant. Predestined, almost.
 
She stood there in her slip, staring at the fabrics, fingers trailing over silk and chiffon. Her reflection in the full-length mirror showed a woman caught between fear and strange, fluttering anticipation. Her nipples tightened against the thin lace of her bra just thinking about tomorrow – not from arousal exactly, but from the sheer unknown weight of it all.
 
She chose the wine-red georgette in the end. It felt right. Like closing a circle.
 
She hung it carefully on the door, then sat back on the bed, heart racing.
 
Tomorrow at 8:30 PM.
 
Tomorrow she would meet Maan Singh.
 
Tomorrow she would step into whatever “initiation” awaited.
 

And for the first time in two endless days, the knot of dread in her stomach loosened – replaced by something warmer, heavier, almost liquid.