04-09-2025, 11:51 PM
Chapter -1
The humid Kerala air clung to Rohan’s skin as he watched his wife, Avantika, laugh with Mrs. Nair from the third floor. They were standing by the complex’s shared well, the evening sun casting long, golden shadows. But Rohan wasn’t watching the conversation; he was watching the watchers.
His eyes tracked the security guard, Sajan, leaning against his booth. The man’s gaze wasn't on the gate he was paid to monitor; it was fixed, unabashedly, on the way Avantika’s light cotton saree hugged the curve of her hip as she shifted her weight. A slow, hot curl of something unfamiliar unfurled in Rohan’s stomach. It wasn't anger. It was… interest.
From his balcony, he had the perfect vantage point. He saw Mr. Menon, the retired widower from the end block, pause his slow walk to adjust his glasses, his eyes lingering a fraction too long on the deep plunge of Avantika’s neckline. Rohan’s own breath hitched. They all want her. The thought was a bolt of lightning, thrilling and terrifying.
He’d always known she was beautiful, but this was different. This was seeing her through their eyes. A prized possession left casually in view, igniting a covetous hunger in every man who passed.
Later, as Avantika chopped vegetables for dinner, her movements efficient and graceful, Rohan came up behind her. He pressed his body against her back, his hands sliding around her waist. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and sandalwood.
“Sajan couldn’t take his eyes off you today,” he murmured, his lips brushing her skin.
Avantika’s hands stilled on the chopping board. She let out a soft, dismissive sound. “Don’t be silly, Rohan. He’s just a lonely old man.”
“He’s not that old,” Rohan countered, his voice low. “And he wasn’t looking at you like you were a painting, Avanti. He was looking at you like he wanted to touch.” He emphasized the word, letting his own hands drift lower, palming the swell of her hips through her thin saree.
She squirmed slightly, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “Stop it. That’s… that’s nonsense.”
But she didn’t push him away. She leaned back into his chest, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement. She’s listening, he thought, a jolt of pure adrenaline shooting through him.
*
Avantika pretended to focus on the vibrant green of the beans, but her mind was reeling. Rohan’s words echoed in her ears, painting a shocking, illicit picture. Sajan? The guard with the kind, tired eyes? She’d never considered it. But now, the memory of his glance felt different, weighted. Had it lingered? A strange, fluttering warmth bloomed in her belly, entirely separate from the heat of Rohan’s body against hers.
It was confusing, this new thrum of attention. For ten years, she’d been only Rohan’s. The appreciative glances from others were just background noise. Now, with Rohan’s breath hot on her neck and his words painting her as an object of explicit desire, the noise was becoming a symphony she couldn’t ignore.
The following weekend, the residents’ association hosted an Onam celebration in the common courtyard. Fairy lights were strung between palm trees, and the air was thick with the scent of payasam and fragrant flowers. Avantika wore a deep maroon saree, the silk setting off her complexion. Rohan’s hand was a possessive brand on the small of her back as they navigated the crowd.
He guided her towards a group that included Arjun, the young college boy who lived upstairs with his parents. The boy was all limbs and nervous energy, but when he looked at Avantika, his awkwardness vanished, replaced by a brazen, youthful admiration that made her pulse skip.
“The pookalam looks beautiful, doesn’t it, Arjun?” Rohan said, his tone conversational, but his thumb was making slow, deliberate circles on Avantika’s back.
“Y-yes, sir,” Arjun stammered, his eyes flicking from the flower arrangement to Avantika’s face and then, boldly, down to the delicate gold necklace resting in the hollow of her throat. “Very beautiful.”
The crowd shifted, pressing them closer. In the crush, Arjun’s hand, holding a glass of sherbet, brushed against Avantika’s bare arm. It was a mere second of contact, skin on skin. The boy flinched as if burned, his eyes widening in apology. But he didn’t pull away immediately. The cool condensation from the glass met her warm skin, a shocking, delicious contrast.
Avantika’s breath caught. She felt the touch like a brand. She glanced at Rohan. He was watching them, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were dark, intense. He saw that. He saw, and he’s not angry.
She felt a reckless thrill. She held Arjun’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a tiny, silent acknowledgment of the contact, before turning away, the ghost of his touch still tingling on her arm.
The music shifted to a popular, rhythmic film song. The energy of the crowd surged. Rohan leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, his voice a husky command that brooked no argument. “Dance with him.”
Avantika’s head whipped around. “What?”
“Dance. With. Arjun.” The words were punctuated by the pressure of his fingers on her waist. “I want to see it.”
Before she could process the shock, Rohan had gently propelled her forward, right into the space where Arjun was moving awkwardly to the beat. The boy looked startled, then his face broke into a wide, disbelieving grin.
The space was tight. There was no room for formal dance. It was just bodies moving in rhythm. Arjun’s movements were initially shy, but the beat, the crowd, and Avantika’s proximity intoxicated him. His hands found her waist, tentative at first. The heat of his palms seeped through the thin silk of her saree, so different from Rohan’s familiar touch. It was younger, hesitantly eager.
Avantika let herself move, her hips swaying to the pulsing music. She could feel the eyes of others on them—the envious glances of the other men, the curious looks of the women. But most of all, she could feel Rohan’s gaze, a laser beam of heat from the sidelines, watching his wife dance in another man’s arms.
Emboldened, Arjun’s grip tightened. He pulled her just a fraction closer as they turned. His thigh brushed against hers. The rough texture of his denim jeans against the smooth slide of her silk saree was maddening. His breath ruffled the hair at her temple. He was so close she could smell the faint scent of his cologne, something fresh and spicy.
She let her head fall back a little, a soft laugh escaping her lips as the song crescendoed. The movement brought her body flush against his for a single, electrifying moment. She felt the lean, hard line of him, the proof of his youthful arousal pressed against her abdomen.
A wave of pure, unadulterated heat flooded her. It was wrong. It was exhilarating. Her own body was responding, a deep, aching throbbing beginning to pulse between her legs. She was dancing on the edge of a precipice, and Rohan was there, not pulling her back, but pushing her forward.
The song ended with a final, crashing beat. The crowd erupted in applause. Arjun released her, his face flushed, his eyes dazed and full of a worshipful awe. Avantika stumbled back a step, her own heart hammering against her ribs. She sought out Rohan in the crowd.
He was right there. He didn’t look angry or jealous. His eyes were blazing with a fierce, possessive pride. He stepped forward, slipping an arm around her, pulling her away from Arjun and into the shadows at the edge of the courtyard. His body was rigid with a tension that was entirely sexual.
He spun her to face him, his back to the party. The noise of the celebration faded into a distant hum. His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her blazing skin. His voice was a ragged, hungry whisper in her ear, meant only for her.
“Did you feel him? Against you?”
The humid Kerala air clung to Rohan’s skin as he watched his wife, Avantika, laugh with Mrs. Nair from the third floor. They were standing by the complex’s shared well, the evening sun casting long, golden shadows. But Rohan wasn’t watching the conversation; he was watching the watchers.
His eyes tracked the security guard, Sajan, leaning against his booth. The man’s gaze wasn't on the gate he was paid to monitor; it was fixed, unabashedly, on the way Avantika’s light cotton saree hugged the curve of her hip as she shifted her weight. A slow, hot curl of something unfamiliar unfurled in Rohan’s stomach. It wasn't anger. It was… interest.
From his balcony, he had the perfect vantage point. He saw Mr. Menon, the retired widower from the end block, pause his slow walk to adjust his glasses, his eyes lingering a fraction too long on the deep plunge of Avantika’s neckline. Rohan’s own breath hitched. They all want her. The thought was a bolt of lightning, thrilling and terrifying.
He’d always known she was beautiful, but this was different. This was seeing her through their eyes. A prized possession left casually in view, igniting a covetous hunger in every man who passed.
Later, as Avantika chopped vegetables for dinner, her movements efficient and graceful, Rohan came up behind her. He pressed his body against her back, his hands sliding around her waist. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and sandalwood.
“Sajan couldn’t take his eyes off you today,” he murmured, his lips brushing her skin.
Avantika’s hands stilled on the chopping board. She let out a soft, dismissive sound. “Don’t be silly, Rohan. He’s just a lonely old man.”
“He’s not that old,” Rohan countered, his voice low. “And he wasn’t looking at you like you were a painting, Avanti. He was looking at you like he wanted to touch.” He emphasized the word, letting his own hands drift lower, palming the swell of her hips through her thin saree.
She squirmed slightly, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “Stop it. That’s… that’s nonsense.”
But she didn’t push him away. She leaned back into his chest, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement. She’s listening, he thought, a jolt of pure adrenaline shooting through him.
*
Avantika pretended to focus on the vibrant green of the beans, but her mind was reeling. Rohan’s words echoed in her ears, painting a shocking, illicit picture. Sajan? The guard with the kind, tired eyes? She’d never considered it. But now, the memory of his glance felt different, weighted. Had it lingered? A strange, fluttering warmth bloomed in her belly, entirely separate from the heat of Rohan’s body against hers.
It was confusing, this new thrum of attention. For ten years, she’d been only Rohan’s. The appreciative glances from others were just background noise. Now, with Rohan’s breath hot on her neck and his words painting her as an object of explicit desire, the noise was becoming a symphony she couldn’t ignore.
The following weekend, the residents’ association hosted an Onam celebration in the common courtyard. Fairy lights were strung between palm trees, and the air was thick with the scent of payasam and fragrant flowers. Avantika wore a deep maroon saree, the silk setting off her complexion. Rohan’s hand was a possessive brand on the small of her back as they navigated the crowd.
He guided her towards a group that included Arjun, the young college boy who lived upstairs with his parents. The boy was all limbs and nervous energy, but when he looked at Avantika, his awkwardness vanished, replaced by a brazen, youthful admiration that made her pulse skip.
“The pookalam looks beautiful, doesn’t it, Arjun?” Rohan said, his tone conversational, but his thumb was making slow, deliberate circles on Avantika’s back.
“Y-yes, sir,” Arjun stammered, his eyes flicking from the flower arrangement to Avantika’s face and then, boldly, down to the delicate gold necklace resting in the hollow of her throat. “Very beautiful.”
The crowd shifted, pressing them closer. In the crush, Arjun’s hand, holding a glass of sherbet, brushed against Avantika’s bare arm. It was a mere second of contact, skin on skin. The boy flinched as if burned, his eyes widening in apology. But he didn’t pull away immediately. The cool condensation from the glass met her warm skin, a shocking, delicious contrast.
Avantika’s breath caught. She felt the touch like a brand. She glanced at Rohan. He was watching them, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were dark, intense. He saw that. He saw, and he’s not angry.
She felt a reckless thrill. She held Arjun’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a tiny, silent acknowledgment of the contact, before turning away, the ghost of his touch still tingling on her arm.
The music shifted to a popular, rhythmic film song. The energy of the crowd surged. Rohan leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, his voice a husky command that brooked no argument. “Dance with him.”
Avantika’s head whipped around. “What?”
“Dance. With. Arjun.” The words were punctuated by the pressure of his fingers on her waist. “I want to see it.”
Before she could process the shock, Rohan had gently propelled her forward, right into the space where Arjun was moving awkwardly to the beat. The boy looked startled, then his face broke into a wide, disbelieving grin.
The space was tight. There was no room for formal dance. It was just bodies moving in rhythm. Arjun’s movements were initially shy, but the beat, the crowd, and Avantika’s proximity intoxicated him. His hands found her waist, tentative at first. The heat of his palms seeped through the thin silk of her saree, so different from Rohan’s familiar touch. It was younger, hesitantly eager.
Avantika let herself move, her hips swaying to the pulsing music. She could feel the eyes of others on them—the envious glances of the other men, the curious looks of the women. But most of all, she could feel Rohan’s gaze, a laser beam of heat from the sidelines, watching his wife dance in another man’s arms.
Emboldened, Arjun’s grip tightened. He pulled her just a fraction closer as they turned. His thigh brushed against hers. The rough texture of his denim jeans against the smooth slide of her silk saree was maddening. His breath ruffled the hair at her temple. He was so close she could smell the faint scent of his cologne, something fresh and spicy.
She let her head fall back a little, a soft laugh escaping her lips as the song crescendoed. The movement brought her body flush against his for a single, electrifying moment. She felt the lean, hard line of him, the proof of his youthful arousal pressed against her abdomen.
A wave of pure, unadulterated heat flooded her. It was wrong. It was exhilarating. Her own body was responding, a deep, aching throbbing beginning to pulse between her legs. She was dancing on the edge of a precipice, and Rohan was there, not pulling her back, but pushing her forward.
The song ended with a final, crashing beat. The crowd erupted in applause. Arjun released her, his face flushed, his eyes dazed and full of a worshipful awe. Avantika stumbled back a step, her own heart hammering against her ribs. She sought out Rohan in the crowd.
He was right there. He didn’t look angry or jealous. His eyes were blazing with a fierce, possessive pride. He stepped forward, slipping an arm around her, pulling her away from Arjun and into the shadows at the edge of the courtyard. His body was rigid with a tension that was entirely sexual.
He spun her to face him, his back to the party. The noise of the celebration faded into a distant hum. His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her blazing skin. His voice was a ragged, hungry whisper in her ear, meant only for her.
“Did you feel him? Against you?”
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