[Biosys]

The Leeching Eyes
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That evening, her husband came home with flowers—white lilies, her favorite. He kissed her cheek in the kitchen, his lips chaste and warm, and she felt the weight of Gopal's gaze from the corner where he chopped vegetables for dinner.

"Long day," her husband sighed, loosening his tie. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than she remembered. "The Henderson account is falling apart. I might need to work late next week."

Anu nodded, unable to speak, because Gopal was looking at her. Not at her face—at her body. His eyes traveled down her throat to the swell of her breasts beneath her kurta, then lower, to where her hips met the counter. He knew what she looked like beneath the fabric now. He knew the exact color of her nipples, the curve of her stomach, the secret places only a husband should know.

And he was watching her know that he knew.

"Anu?" Her husband touched her arm. "You okay? You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," she said, her voice too bright. "Just tired."

Gopal's knife hit the cutting board—thock, thock, thock—rhythmic and deliberate. When her husband turned to hang up his jacket, Gopal met her eyes. He smiled—not the deferential smile of a servant, but something predatory and knowing. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and she remembered where that tongue had been that dreadful morning.

She dropped the lilies. Her hands shook as she gathered them from the floor.

"Clumsy today," her husband laughed, patting her shoulder. "Why don't you rest? I'll ask Gopal to make some tea."

No, she wanted to scream. Don't leave me alone with him. Don't trust him. Don't trust me.

But she said nothing. She watched her husband retreat to his study, whistling, trusting and blind, while Gopal moved closer, close enough that his arm brushed hers as he reached for the kettle.

"Beautiful flowers, memsaab," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Shame they're already dying."

He wasn't talking about the lilies.