Yesterday, 01:48 AM
The Rain-Soaked Secret
Chapter 1: The Empty Apartment
The rain in Dhaka during monsoon had a particular quality—it didn't cleanse so much as reveal. It exposed the city's crumbling infrastructure, the overwhelmed drainage systems, and on that particular Thursday evening, it exposed something else entirely: a loneliness so profound it felt like a physical presence in Rohan's luxury SUV.
Rohan Ahmed, thirty-nine years old, sat in his black Toyota Prado, windshield wipers working overtime as he navigated the flooded streets of Gulshan toward Dhanmondi. Three months had passed since cancer had stolen Anika from him, but the silence in his three-bedroom apartment still startled him each evening. At six-foot-two with the disciplined build of a man who spent five mornings a week at the gym, Rohan presented an image of controlled strength. His marketing director position at the multinational corporation paid for the apartment, the car, the Cadet College fees for his thirteen-year-old son Arif—everything except what he actually needed: connection.
His eyes, usually sharp and assessing during business negotiations, now scanned the rain-drenched sidewalks with a different kind of hunger. Since adolescence, Rohan had understood his nature—a relentless sexual appetite that had driven him through numerous liaisons, even during his marriage. Anika had known, had tolerated with quiet resignation what she called his "compulsion." His physical endowment—a thick eight and a half inches—and his stamina had become legend among certain circles in Dhaka's elite society. Women whispered about it at parties, some with admiration, others with a kind of fearful fascination.
The wipers thumped rhythmically as he turned onto Road 8 in Dhanmondi, and that's when he saw her.
Riya stood under the inadequate awning of a coffee shop, her modest umbrella proving useless against the diagonal assault of the monsoon downpour. At twenty-seven, she appeared both vulnerable and defiant, clutching her laptop bag to her chest as if it were a shield. Rohan had noticed her weeks earlier when she and her parents moved into the building—noticed her in the way a starving man notices a feast.
Even through the distortion of rain-streaked glass, her proportions were extraordinary: the generous curve of hips that flared from a surprisingly small waist, the full breasts that strained against her wet kameez, the rounded posterior that seemed designed by some particularly generous deity. Her face, now tilted upward searching for a taxi that wouldn't come, held a melancholy beauty—full lips that naturally pursed, large dark eyes that held stories Rohan wanted to read.
He pulled the SUV to the curb, lowering the passenger window. "Riya? Do you need a ride?"
She bent slightly, recognition dawning through her distress. "Rohan bhai? The rain... I can't find..."
"Get in. You're completely drenched."
The hesitation lasted only three seconds—the time it took for another wave of rain to soak her already clinging clothes. She opened the door and slid into the leather seat, bringing with her the scent of rain, wet fabric, and something floral beneath it all.
As she fastened her seatbelt, Rohan couldn't help but notice how the wet cotton clung to every contour. The outline of her bra was visible through the material, the dark circles of her areolas apparent against the light fabric. Her salwar pants, equally soaked, hugged thighs that promised soft strength. Rohan felt the familiar tightening in his groin, the quickening of his pulse that had accompanied every conquest since his teenage years.
"Thank you," she said, her voice softer than he remembered from their elevator exchanges. "I was waiting for thirty minutes. All the CNGs are occupied."
"It's no trouble. We're neighbors." He handed her the box of tissues from the console. "Here, dry yourself a bit."
As she took the tissues, their fingers brushed—a momentary contact that sent a current through him. She dabbed at her face, then her neck, the movement causing her breasts to shift in a way that made Rohan's mouth go dry.
"The monsoon surprises us every year," he said, pulling back into traffic. "Yet we're never prepared."
She offered a small smile. "Like most things in life, I suppose."
The fifteen-minute drive passed with polite conversation about the building, the flooding in Dhanmondi, their respective workplaces. Rohan learned she worked at a design firm in Gulshan, not far from his office. He stored this information carefully, as he stored all potentially useful details.
When they reached their building, she turned to him with genuine gratitude. "Really, thank you. I would have been standing there for another hour."
"Any time," he said, and meant it. "We should look out for each other. The building feels friendlier that way."
Her smile widened slightly before she disappeared into the elevator, leaving Rohan alone with the scent of her in his car and a growing certainty in his mind.
Chapter 1: The Empty Apartment
The rain in Dhaka during monsoon had a particular quality—it didn't cleanse so much as reveal. It exposed the city's crumbling infrastructure, the overwhelmed drainage systems, and on that particular Thursday evening, it exposed something else entirely: a loneliness so profound it felt like a physical presence in Rohan's luxury SUV.
Rohan Ahmed, thirty-nine years old, sat in his black Toyota Prado, windshield wipers working overtime as he navigated the flooded streets of Gulshan toward Dhanmondi. Three months had passed since cancer had stolen Anika from him, but the silence in his three-bedroom apartment still startled him each evening. At six-foot-two with the disciplined build of a man who spent five mornings a week at the gym, Rohan presented an image of controlled strength. His marketing director position at the multinational corporation paid for the apartment, the car, the Cadet College fees for his thirteen-year-old son Arif—everything except what he actually needed: connection.
His eyes, usually sharp and assessing during business negotiations, now scanned the rain-drenched sidewalks with a different kind of hunger. Since adolescence, Rohan had understood his nature—a relentless sexual appetite that had driven him through numerous liaisons, even during his marriage. Anika had known, had tolerated with quiet resignation what she called his "compulsion." His physical endowment—a thick eight and a half inches—and his stamina had become legend among certain circles in Dhaka's elite society. Women whispered about it at parties, some with admiration, others with a kind of fearful fascination.
The wipers thumped rhythmically as he turned onto Road 8 in Dhanmondi, and that's when he saw her.
Riya stood under the inadequate awning of a coffee shop, her modest umbrella proving useless against the diagonal assault of the monsoon downpour. At twenty-seven, she appeared both vulnerable and defiant, clutching her laptop bag to her chest as if it were a shield. Rohan had noticed her weeks earlier when she and her parents moved into the building—noticed her in the way a starving man notices a feast.
Even through the distortion of rain-streaked glass, her proportions were extraordinary: the generous curve of hips that flared from a surprisingly small waist, the full breasts that strained against her wet kameez, the rounded posterior that seemed designed by some particularly generous deity. Her face, now tilted upward searching for a taxi that wouldn't come, held a melancholy beauty—full lips that naturally pursed, large dark eyes that held stories Rohan wanted to read.
He pulled the SUV to the curb, lowering the passenger window. "Riya? Do you need a ride?"
She bent slightly, recognition dawning through her distress. "Rohan bhai? The rain... I can't find..."
"Get in. You're completely drenched."
The hesitation lasted only three seconds—the time it took for another wave of rain to soak her already clinging clothes. She opened the door and slid into the leather seat, bringing with her the scent of rain, wet fabric, and something floral beneath it all.
As she fastened her seatbelt, Rohan couldn't help but notice how the wet cotton clung to every contour. The outline of her bra was visible through the material, the dark circles of her areolas apparent against the light fabric. Her salwar pants, equally soaked, hugged thighs that promised soft strength. Rohan felt the familiar tightening in his groin, the quickening of his pulse that had accompanied every conquest since his teenage years.
"Thank you," she said, her voice softer than he remembered from their elevator exchanges. "I was waiting for thirty minutes. All the CNGs are occupied."
"It's no trouble. We're neighbors." He handed her the box of tissues from the console. "Here, dry yourself a bit."
As she took the tissues, their fingers brushed—a momentary contact that sent a current through him. She dabbed at her face, then her neck, the movement causing her breasts to shift in a way that made Rohan's mouth go dry.
"The monsoon surprises us every year," he said, pulling back into traffic. "Yet we're never prepared."
She offered a small smile. "Like most things in life, I suppose."
The fifteen-minute drive passed with polite conversation about the building, the flooding in Dhanmondi, their respective workplaces. Rohan learned she worked at a design firm in Gulshan, not far from his office. He stored this information carefully, as he stored all potentially useful details.
When they reached their building, she turned to him with genuine gratitude. "Really, thank you. I would have been standing there for another hour."
"Any time," he said, and meant it. "We should look out for each other. The building feels friendlier that way."
Her smile widened slightly before she disappeared into the elevator, leaving Rohan alone with the scent of her in his car and a growing certainty in his mind.
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