18-03-2026, 09:50 PM
Chapter 18: The Rooftop Betrayal & The Call
Jeeva woke before dawn — 6:30 AM — the flat still wrapped in pre-light quiet.
The chemical storm had eased overnight, leaving only a dull, persistent ache in his groin, his cock half-hard against the sheet like a low-grade fever.
No soft footsteps in the kitchen.
No water running in the bathroom.
He sat up slowly, cot creaking under his lean frame.
The guest room door was ajar.
He stepped into the hall — dim, cool, the ceiling fan stirring lazy air.
Kids’ room first.
kids were sleeping
but no traces of Anandhi.
Jeeva’s pulse quickened.
He checked the kitchen — stove cold, no coffee brewing.
Bathroom — door open, dry. The whole flat — silent, empty.
He moved to the main door. It was unlocked — just pushed to, not latched.
His stomach dropped.
“Where did she go at this hour?” he muttered to himself. “6:30 AM…”
He pulled out his phone to call her — thumb hovering over her name — then froze.
What if something was really happening?
What if all his fears — the dreams, the doubts, Suriya’s “taking care” claim — were true?
What if she was with him right now?
He pocketed the phone. Stepped into the corridor.
Empty. Dim bulb flickering. Suriya’s door closed.
Jeeva’s heart slammed. He moved silently to Suriya’s door — light push.
It swung open — unlocked.
Shit.
He slipped inside — slow, silent — eyes adjusting to the low light.
The flat was dark except for a faint glow from the corridor monitor. Gym equipment in the corner. Toys scattered. Laptop closed on the table.
No one in the hall.
He checked the bedroom — empty bed, sheets neat.
Kitchen — empty.
Jeeva’s blood roared.
They were gone.
Both of them.
He stepped back into the corridor
breath shallow — and looked toward the staircase.
The narrow stairs leading up to the rooftop terrace — where water tanks stood and clothes were usually dried.
His gut twisted.
He climbed slowly
barefoot, silent — phone in hand, camera ready, recording.
as he climbed cool morning air hitting his face.
Suriya was there.
Alone.
Leaning against the pabangt, cigarette glowing in the dark. He wore only shorts — bare-chested, six-pack carved deep, fair skin glistening with morning dew.
A clothesline stretched across the terrace
Anandhi’s bras and panties hanging among the kids’ clothes and her sarees.
Suriya took a slow drag.
Then casually he reached out.
His fingers brushed one of Anandhi’s bras white lace, cups still holding the shape of her breasts. He lifted it to his face — inhaled deeply — then pressed his lips to the inner cup in a slow, reverent kiss. A puff of smoke curled from his mouth onto the fabric. He smiled — small, private, satisfied.
Jeeva’s phone kept recording — steady, silent.
“Bastard,” he whispered to himself. “Acted like a saint… but you’ve been lusting after her like a creep.”
Suriya exhaled, let the bra fall back onto the line, and took another drag.
Jeeva’s cock traitorously twitched hard in his shorts. The storm flared again rage and arousal twisting together at the sight of Suriya desecrating what belonged to him.
His thumb hovered over the stop button.
Then his phone vibrated — incoming call.
Madhavan.
Jeeva’s blood froze.
He had planned to call Madhavan this morning, to arrange proof, to plan the reveal.
But Madhavan had called first.
What could it be?
He answered — voice low, barely above a whisper.
“Where are you?” Madhavan asked, tone urgent, no greeting.
“In the home,” Jeeva lied, still on the rooftop stairs, door cracked.
“Return soon.”
Jeeva’s grip tightened. “Why?”
“Don’t ask questions. Return soon.”
Jeeva’s anger flared. Whats the emergency “Reason me.
Listen
Everything is going fine here. Don’t spoil my mood.”
Madhavan lost patience, voice sharp.
“The monkey they tested lost its life.
It didn’t pass the 100-day cycle.
I just want to make sure I can reverse you… before it’s too late.”
Jeeva’s world tilted.
The rooftop wind whipped around him cold, sudden.
The phone trembled in his hand.
Suriya’s cigarette glowed in the distance — oblivious.
Anandhi’s bra swayed gently on the line.
Eighty days left? Or less. Much less.
Jeeva woke before dawn — 6:30 AM — the flat still wrapped in pre-light quiet.
The chemical storm had eased overnight, leaving only a dull, persistent ache in his groin, his cock half-hard against the sheet like a low-grade fever.
No soft footsteps in the kitchen.
No water running in the bathroom.
He sat up slowly, cot creaking under his lean frame.
The guest room door was ajar.
He stepped into the hall — dim, cool, the ceiling fan stirring lazy air.
Kids’ room first.
kids were sleeping
but no traces of Anandhi.
Jeeva’s pulse quickened.
He checked the kitchen — stove cold, no coffee brewing.
Bathroom — door open, dry. The whole flat — silent, empty.
He moved to the main door. It was unlocked — just pushed to, not latched.
His stomach dropped.
“Where did she go at this hour?” he muttered to himself. “6:30 AM…”
He pulled out his phone to call her — thumb hovering over her name — then froze.
What if something was really happening?
What if all his fears — the dreams, the doubts, Suriya’s “taking care” claim — were true?
What if she was with him right now?
He pocketed the phone. Stepped into the corridor.
Empty. Dim bulb flickering. Suriya’s door closed.
Jeeva’s heart slammed. He moved silently to Suriya’s door — light push.
It swung open — unlocked.
Shit.
He slipped inside — slow, silent — eyes adjusting to the low light.
The flat was dark except for a faint glow from the corridor monitor. Gym equipment in the corner. Toys scattered. Laptop closed on the table.
No one in the hall.
He checked the bedroom — empty bed, sheets neat.
Kitchen — empty.
Jeeva’s blood roared.
They were gone.
Both of them.
He stepped back into the corridor
breath shallow — and looked toward the staircase.
The narrow stairs leading up to the rooftop terrace — where water tanks stood and clothes were usually dried.
His gut twisted.
He climbed slowly
barefoot, silent — phone in hand, camera ready, recording.
as he climbed cool morning air hitting his face.
Suriya was there.
Alone.
Leaning against the pabangt, cigarette glowing in the dark. He wore only shorts — bare-chested, six-pack carved deep, fair skin glistening with morning dew.
A clothesline stretched across the terrace
Anandhi’s bras and panties hanging among the kids’ clothes and her sarees.
Suriya took a slow drag.
Then casually he reached out.
His fingers brushed one of Anandhi’s bras white lace, cups still holding the shape of her breasts. He lifted it to his face — inhaled deeply — then pressed his lips to the inner cup in a slow, reverent kiss. A puff of smoke curled from his mouth onto the fabric. He smiled — small, private, satisfied.
Jeeva’s phone kept recording — steady, silent.
“Bastard,” he whispered to himself. “Acted like a saint… but you’ve been lusting after her like a creep.”
Suriya exhaled, let the bra fall back onto the line, and took another drag.
Jeeva’s cock traitorously twitched hard in his shorts. The storm flared again rage and arousal twisting together at the sight of Suriya desecrating what belonged to him.
His thumb hovered over the stop button.
Then his phone vibrated — incoming call.
Madhavan.
Jeeva’s blood froze.
He had planned to call Madhavan this morning, to arrange proof, to plan the reveal.
But Madhavan had called first.
What could it be?
He answered — voice low, barely above a whisper.
“Where are you?” Madhavan asked, tone urgent, no greeting.
“In the home,” Jeeva lied, still on the rooftop stairs, door cracked.
“Return soon.”
Jeeva’s grip tightened. “Why?”
“Don’t ask questions. Return soon.”
Jeeva’s anger flared. Whats the emergency “Reason me.
Listen
Everything is going fine here. Don’t spoil my mood.”
Madhavan lost patience, voice sharp.
“The monkey they tested lost its life.
It didn’t pass the 100-day cycle.
I just want to make sure I can reverse you… before it’s too late.”
Jeeva’s world tilted.
The rooftop wind whipped around him cold, sudden.
The phone trembled in his hand.
Suriya’s cigarette glowed in the distance — oblivious.
Anandhi’s bra swayed gently on the line.
Eighty days left? Or less. Much less.
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