Adultery Innocent Housewife Tricked by Luck By Chance

[Luck by chance]

Chapter One - Introduction and First Meeting


Ravi Das, a man of forty-five years, stood before the mirror that morning. His face, once handsome, now bore the creases of disappointment and the harshness of a life gone wrong. His first wife had vanished into the night with their only son and her secret lover. His second wife could not bear him so she filled a domestic violence case against him and securing a divorce, stripping him of both dignity and assets.

Since then, Ravi had become a predator of the streets. His eyes, dark and hungry, roamed the bustling markets and crowded lanes of Mumbai, devouring the sight of women with a primal hunger. He watched their buttocks sway beneath sarees and salwars as they walked, each step a hypnotic rhythm that made his loins ache. His mind was a master at stripping them bare, peeling away the cotton and silk to reveal the soft, warm flesh beneath. He imagined the weight and shape of their breasts from the tantalizing outlines against fabric, his fingers twitching as he pictured himself cupping them, feeling their nipples harden against his palms. His fantasies grew bolder with each passing day, evolving from fleeting glances to detailed scenarios of taking them against the walls of narrow alleys or on the floors of dusty shops. During his lonely nights, he'd lose himself in pornographic worlds, his hand working furiously as he watched women being used and pleasured in ways he craved. These sessions became his only release, his only escape, until they ultimately cost him his previous job when his employer walked in and found him with his pants around his ankles, his eyes glued to the screen as he stroked himself to completion.

Today brought new promise. Ravi had manipulated Mohan, the elderly previous driver at Swades Apartments, into recommending him for the position. From the old man, he'd learned that the apartment belonged to the late Mr. Gupta, who'd died of a heart attack three years ago at 52, leaving behind his widow Ankita and a young maid.

The elevator ride to the seventh floor was a torment of anticipation. Ravi pictured the widow – lonely, vulnerable, perhaps desperate for a man's touch after three years of widowhood. He adjusted his crotch, already stirring at the thought.

The door opened to reveal Chitra, an 18-year-old maid who greeted him with a simple, nervous nod. Her eyes, wide and innocent, darted away from his intense gaze as she led him inside, her movements quick and efficient. Ravi followed, his mind already shifting to the task at hand.

Ravi settled into the plush sofa, the expensive fabric a stark contrast to his worn trousers. His mind calculated his opening salary demand – 25,000 rupees would be a good start. His eyes scanned the lavishly decorated room, landing on a large family photograph on the wall. There stood the late Mr. Gupta with his family, but Ravi's gaze locked on the woman beside him.

Could this be Mrs. Gupta? The goddess in yellow saree? Though dbangd conservatively, her figure was unmistakable – breasts full and proud against the blouse, hips curving in a way that made Ravi's breath catch. He felt a stirring in his loins as he imagined what lay beneath those layers of modesty.

Footsteps approached – soft, deliberate. Ravi's pulse quickened as Mrs. Ankita Gupta entered the room.
Time seemed to slow as Ravi took her in. She wore a cream-colored saree that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her face, though bare of makeup, was a masterpiece of classical Indian beauty – high cheekbones, full lips that begged to be kissed, and eyes that held both innocence and a hint of worldly knowledge. Her body, which Ravi mentally measured at a perfect 36-28-38, defied her 42 years and the fact that she had a 19-year-old son.

"Namaste," she said, her voice like honey mixed with spices.
The word barely left her lips before Ravi's dick sprang to life, hardening instantly against the fabric of his trousers. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping she wouldn't notice his obvious arousal.

"Namaste, Mrs. Gupta. I am Ravi Das," he managed to say, his voice slightly hoarse. "Mohan recommended me."

Ankita's eyes swept over him, and Ravi could see the flicker of disappointment in her expression. She had clearly expected someone younger, more presentable. Her gaze lingered on his slightly disheveled appearance, the faint sweat stains on his collar, the way his eyes seemed to undress her even as she stood there.

"Yes, Mohan mentioned you," she said, her tone polite but distant. "Please, sit."
Ravi sat, his erection still pressing insistently against his pants. He tried to discreetly adjust himself as she continued.

"Mohan spoke of your experience, but..." she paused, her disapproval evident. "We usually prefer someone more... presentable. However, given his recommendation, I am willing to give you a chance."
As she spoke, she moved to adjust a curtain, giving Ravi a perfect view of her profile. The saree's fabric stretched taut across her buttocks, revealing their full, round shape. Ravi's eyes devoured the sight, his mind already calculating how he might get closer.

"Tell me, Ravi," she said, turning back to face him. "How long have you been driving in Mumbai?"
"Twenty years, Mrs. Gupta," he replied, his eyes dropping briefly to the swell of her breasts visible above the neckline of her blouse. "I know this city like the back of my hand."
She seemed uncomfortable under his gaze, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture that inadvertently pushed her breasts together, creating an even more enticing cleavage. Ravi felt his erection throb in response.
"I see," she said, her voice slightly strained. "And your previous employer... why did you leave that position?"
Ravi hesitated, then decided on a half-truth. "There was a... misunderstanding, Mrs. Gupta. My employer and I had different expectations about the job."
Ankita's eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of misunderstanding?"
Ravi met her gaze directly, letting his eyes convey a hint of the passion that burned within him. "Let's just say that I am a man of... strong appetites, Mrs. Gupta. And my previous employer was not comfortable with that."
She shifted uncomfortably, her fingers playing with the pallu of her saree. "I see. Well, here we value discretion above all else."

Ravi saw a flicker of something in her eyes – not just discomfort, but pity. He decided to press his advantage, changing his approach from predatory to pathetic.

"Actually, Mrs. Gupta," he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned forward slightly, "the truth is... my previous employer found himself in a... compromising situation. With a woman who was not his wife."

Ankita's eyes widened slightly, her discomfort momentarily replaced by curiosity.

"He panicked," Ravi continued, letting his voice tremble slightly with feigned emotion. "He needed someone to take the fall, and I... I was loyal. I had served his family for ten years. So when he begged me to say that it was me, that I had brought the woman into his home... I agreed."

He looked down at his hands, as if unable to meet her gaze. "I accepted the blame to save his reputation, his marriage. And in return... he let me go with a reference."
Ravi looked up then, allowing a single tear to glisten in the corner of his eye. "I am a man of my word, Mrs. Gupta. Loyal to a fault. But it has cost me much."

Ankita's expression softened, the suspicion in her eyes replaced by sympathy. She reached out instinctively, then pulled back, remembering herself.

"I... I had no idea, Ravi," she said, her voice gentle. "That is... that is a noble sacrifice."

Ravi seized the moment. "I believe in loyalty, Mrs. Gupta. In doing what is right, even when it costs us dearly. Your husband... may his soul rest in peace... Mohan told me he was a good man. A man of honor. That is the kind of family I wish to serve."

As he spoke, he let his eyes drift to the family photograph on the wall, then back to her. "I see that same honor in you, Mrs. Gupta. In the way you have kept this household, raised your son alone after such a terrible loss."

Ankita's eyes welled with tears at the mention of her husband. The discomfort that had radiated from her moments ago vanished, replaced by a warmth that Ravi found intoxicating.

"You are right to value discretion," Ravi continued, his voice soft but firm. "I understand more than anyone the importance of keeping family secrets safe. I would never betray the trust of those who employ me."

She named a salary that made Ravi's heart sink. "Fifteen thousand rupees per month, with room and board included."

It was far less than he had hoped for, but as Ravi looked at Mrs. Gupta – at the way her saree dbangd over those perfect hips, at the hint of cleavage visible above her blouse – he knew he would accept. This wasn't just about money anymore; it was about proximity, about opportunity.

"I accept, Mrs. Gupta," he said, his voice filled with genuine gratitude now. "I am very grateful for this opportunity."

Ankita seemed surprised by his quick acceptance but nodded. "Chitra will show you the driver's quarters and explain your duties. We expect punctuality and discretion."

"Of course, Mrs. Gupta," Ravi replied, his eyes meeting hers directly. "You will find me very... discreet."
As she turned to leave, Ravi's gaze followed the sway of her hips, the gentle movement of her buttocks beneath the saree. He imagined her in that red saree he'd pictured earlier, her lips painted crimson, her body arching beneath his.

The hunt had begun, and Ravi Das was a patient hunter. He would take his time, watch, wait, and when the moment was right, he would claim his prize. And now, he had laid the perfect foundation of trust and sympathy.

[Luck by chance]

Chapter Two - Shopping for Ravi, an Act of Kindness

The first rays of dawn filtered through the small window of Ravi's room, a cramped space in the corner of the apartment floor that smelled of old wood and his own masculine scent. He woke with a throbbing hardness between his legs, a phantom sensation of the woman from the photograph in his mind. He palmed himself briefly, a low groan escaping his lips, before forcing himself up. Today was about more than fleeting fantasies; it was about laying the foundation.

A soft knock, almost timid, echoed on his door. "Ravi bhaiya?" Chitra's voice was muffled. "Madam has asked you to come for breakfast."

Ravi adjusted his trousers, the fabric straining against his morning erection, and opened the door. He offered the young maid what he hoped was a disarming smile. "Thank you, Chitra. I will be right there."

The dining room was a world away from his humble quarters. A large, polished wooden table gleamed under the soft glow of a designer chandelier. Ravi sat, the plush chair enveloping him, his eyes immediately beginning their reconnaissance. They scanned the apartment, not as a driver, but as a predator surveying his territory. His gaze lingered on a pair of Ankita's sandals left carelessly near the door – delicate strappy things with a slight heel. He pictured her feet sliding into them, the arch of her sole, the delicate toes... He felt a fresh stirring in his loins and shifted in his chair, focusing on the plate of idli and sambar before him.

Just as he was finishing, Ankita entered the room. The morning light caught her, and Ravi's breath hitched. She wore a simple cotton saree in a soft shade of peach, the thin fabric clinging to the swell of her hips. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face and neck, drawing his eyes to the delicate skin there. Even in this casual attire, she was a goddess.

"Good morning, Ravi," she said, her voice warm, a stark contrast to the coolness of their first meeting. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, Mrs. Gupta," he replied, his eyes dropping briefly to the curve of her breasts visible above the neckline of her simple cotton blouse. The fabric was thin, and he could just make out the darker shadow of her areolas. "The bed is comfortable, and the room is quiet."

"I am glad to hear it," she said, sitting down opposite him. The way she moved, the graceful settling of her body, made his pulse race. "Today, I need to go to the mall for some shopping. You will drive me."

"Of course, Mrs. Gupta," Ravi said, his mind already racing with possibilities.

The drive to the mall was his first opportunity. He kept his eyes on the bustling Mumbai traffic, but he was acutely aware of her beside him in the back seat, the scent of her jasmine perfume filling the car.

"You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Gupta," he began, his voice carefully modulated to sound wistful. "It reminds me of... of what I once had."

Ankita leaned forward slightly, her reflection appearing in the rearview mirror. "You were married before?"

Ravi nodded, letting his voice grow heavy with manufactured emotion. "Yes. My wife... her name was Meena. She was the light of my life. And our son, little Rohan... he was everything to me." He paused, letting the silence hang between them, thick with his supposed grief. "One day, I came home from work, and they were gone. She had left me for another man, taking our son with him. I searched for months, but... they vanished into the city."

Ankita's expression softened with genuine sympathy. "That is... terrible, Ravi. I cannot imagine such pain."

Ravi risked a glance in the mirror, his eyes glistening with unshed tears he had summoned with practiced ease. "It destroyed me, Mrs. Gupta. I was a good husband, a devoted father. But it wasn't enough. Since then, I have been alone, just... existing." The lie tasted sweet on his tongue, especially when he saw the pity in her eyes. This was working better than he had imagined.

At the mall, Ravi stayed close to Ankita, his hand occasionally "accidentally" brushing against hers as they navigated the crowds. He watched with primal satisfaction as other men's eyes followed her. A young man walking with his girlfriend stumbled, his eyes glued to Ankita's swaying hips. A security guard straightened up, his gaze fixed on the gentle bounce of her breasts with each step. Ravi felt a surge of possessive pride, as if she were already his property, and these other men were merely acknowledging his claim.

As they entered a high-end clothing store, Ankita turned to him. "Ravi, you cannot continue to wear the same two shirts. Please, choose some new outfits for yourself. Consider it a... welcome gift."

Ravi's eyes widened in feigned surprise. "Oh, Mrs. Gupta, I couldn't possibly. It is too much."

"Nonsense," she insisted, her tone firm but kind. "I insist. You are part of our household now, and I want you to look presentable."

As Ravi browsed through the selection of shirts and trousers, he kept one eye on Ankita. He watched as she examined a deep blue silk saree, holding it against herself. The image of her in that shimmering fabric, clinging to her 36-28-38 figure, sent a jolt of pure desire through him. He imagined her as his wife, wearing that saree just for him, her body adorned with the gold jewelry he would buy her, her eyes dark with desire for him...

His mind went into overdrive. He imagined those magnificent breasts in his hands, their weight, their warmth, her nipples hardening against his palms. He pictured himself untying the knot of her petticoat, his hands sliding down to cup those perfect, round buttocks, squeezing them, parting them, his fingers exploring the forbidden cleft between them. He would bend her over, lift that saree, and...

"Ravi? Are you alright?" Ankita's voice broke through his vivid fantasy.

He blinked, realizing he had been staring at her, his mouth slightly agape. "Yes, Mrs. Gupta. Just... thinking of my Meena. This saree... she would have loved it." The lie came smoothly, wrapping his lust in a cloak of grief.

Ankita's expression softened further. "I am so sorry. I did not mean to..."

"No, no," he said quickly. "It is good to remember. Please, do not mind me." He gestured to the clothes. "Shall I choose these?"

She smiled, not noticing the hunger that had returned to his eyes. "Yes, please. I will not take no for an answer."

As they left the store with several new, more expensive outfits for Ravi, he felt a surge of triumph. This was working. She was softening, warming to him. He had successfully transformed himself from a lecherous stranger into a tragic, loyal man in her eyes. Each moment of manufactured grief was an investment. Soon, very soon, the widow would be his to claim, her body his to worship, her conservative nature a challenge to be overcome. The hunt continued, and each small victory brought him closer to his ultimate prize.

[Luck by chance]

Chapter 3 - Can He Do It?

Days melted into weeks, the monsoon skies giving way to the oppressive heat of an Indian summer. Ravi's routine became a comfortable, yet torturous, rhythm. He was punctual to a fault, his polished shoes echoing on the marble floor each morning at precisely 7:00 AM. He was the perfect driver, but his eyes were never on the road; they were on his prey, Mrs. Ankita Gupta.

He watched her with the patience of a spider. He saw the way the morning sun would catch the fine hairs on her arms as she watered her balcony plants. He memorized the curve of her spine when she bent over to pick up fallen leaves. He knew the exact shade of her nipples through the thin fabric of her white nightie when she came for her early morning tea, oblivious to his gaze from the driver's seat. Each moment was a delicious torment, a feast he could see but never taste.

Her conservative nature was a fortress with high walls. Ravi quickly understood he had no chance of a direct assault. She was a woman who had built her life around piety and propriety, a fortress he couldn't breach with a simple leer or a suggestive comment.

To his immense frustration, Ankita had adopted him. She had taken him not as an employee, but as a family member. The other residents of Swades Apartments, the gossiping aunties and the bored housewives, saw them together and assumed. "Ankitaji's brother from the village has come to stay," he overheard one say to another in the elevator. Ravi did nothing to correct them. He enjoyed the status.

She treated him like a big brother. "Bhaiya, can you get this from the market?" she would ask, her trust in him absolute. "Ravi bhai, come, I need your opinion on this new saree." She would hold up a vibrant silk, asking for his thoughts, her body inches from his, the scent of jasmine and sweat filling the air, driving him mad. He would give a gruff, brotherly approval while his mind screamed with primal urges. She gave him the keys to the household, the responsibility of her daily tasks, making him indispensable.

Her son, Arjun, was a ghost in their lives, a spoiled, ungrateful specter. Ravi would see the light on the international phone blink for hours, unanswered. He would hear Ankita's voice, soft and pleading, leaving messages that were never returned. "Arjun beta, just call back. It's your mother's birthday." The silence that followed was heavy with her disappointment. Ravi saw her vulnerability in these moments, the crack in her armor, and it fueled a dark hope within him. A lonely woman was a woman who might eventually need a man.

Frustration gnawed at him. He knew that no matter how well he played the part of the loyal, grieving brother, he couldn't seduce this woman. Her piety was too deep, her trust in him too pure. She was blind to the lust that rolled off him in waves.

One afternoon, as they were pulling out of the apartment complex, Ravi's eyes flickered to the passenger seat. He had noticed it before, but today it seemed like a deliberate invitation. The seatbelt lay unused, coiled like a dark snake beside her.

"Mrs. Gupta," he began, keeping his voice casual, concerned. "For your safety, you should wear the seatbelt. The traffic can be unpredictable."

In his mind, a vivid scene played out. He pictured her reaching across her body, pulling the strap taut. He saw the thick band of nylon pressing firmly into the soft flesh of her breasts, flattening them, highlighting their fullness, creating a delicious line of pressure that would draw every eye. The thought made his mouth dry and his loins tighten.

Ankita looked at the seatbelt, then at him, a faint line of annoyance creasing her brow. "No, Ravi bhaiya. I don't like it."

"It is constricting," she explained, her gaze drifting out the window. "It feels... improper. It pulls at the saree. I prefer to be free."

Ravi's heart sank, but a perverse thrill shot through him. Her reason was so typically, so frustratingly, her. It wasn't about safety or rebellion; it was about a misplaced sense of propriety. She would rather risk her life than have a piece of nylon mar the dbang of her saree or feel the "improper" pressure against her body. The irony was not lost on him. He, who fantasized about the most improper acts with her, was being lectured on the impropriety of a seatbelt.

"But Mrs. Gupta, it is for your own good," he pressed, trying one last time, his voice laced with a concern that was entirely for his own viewing pleasure.

She gave him a small, dismissive smile. "I appreciate your concern, bhaiya. But I will be fine. Just drive carefully."

And so, every time they drove, his eyes would be drawn to that empty space beside her, that unused strap. It became a symbol of his frustration—a safety device she rejected, just as she would reject his advances. A simple piece of equipment that stood between him and the spectacle he desperately wanted to see.

Ankita was an island unto herself. She never spoke to the other apartment owners, her social circle limited to the temple and the occasional family obligation. The watchman, a wiry man named Shankar, knew little about her beyond her car number and her flat number.

This is where Ravi found his small victories. He began to linger at the security gate, chatting with Shankar. The new shirts Ankita had bought him, the crisp linen and soft cotton, changed their dynamic.

"You are Mrs. Gupta's brother, no?" Shankar asked one evening, offering Ravi a bidi.

Ravi took it, letting the assumption settle comfortably. "Something like that," he replied with a mysterious smile. "Family is family."

He enjoyed it immensely. He enjoyed the respectful nods from the neighbors who had once ignored him. He enjoyed being seen as someone of consequence, not just a driver. He would never, ever clarify.

The car became their shared sanctuary. Ankita always sat in the front passenger seat, a habit that further blurred the lines of their relationship. To the outside world, they were not employer and employee. They were a brother and his widowed sister, perhaps even something more. Ravi relished this ambiguity, this public intimacy that was so chaste in reality.

One sweltering afternoon, they were stuck in traffic, the air conditioner struggling against the heat. Ankita had been to the temple, and the heat had made her drowsy. She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, her eyes closed. Her saree, a pale green georgette, had ridden up slightly with her movement, exposing a tantalizing stretch of her calf and ankle. The fine golden chain around her ankle glinted in the sunlight.

Ravi's hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His eyes darted from the unmoving sea of vehicles to the expanse of her skin. He could see the delicate blue veins beneath the surface, the smooth texture he could almost feel. He imagined his fingers tracing that path, up her calf, behind her knee, to the soft flesh of her thigh. His cock swelled, a painful, insistent pressure against his trousers. He shifted in his seat, the movement a silent agony.

He risked a glance at her face. She was fast asleep, her lips slightly parted, her breathing even and deep. She was completely oblivious, trusting him completely in her vulnerable state. The thought sent a jolt of power through him that was more potent than any lust. He was the wolf, and the lamb had fallen asleep beside him.

The traffic began to move, but Ravi didn't want the moment to end. He drove slowly, deliberately, his eyes feasting on her. He saw a drop of sweat trickle down from her temple, along her jawline, and disappear into the soft hollow of her neck. He wanted to lean over, to taste that salt on his tongue. He imagined her waking up, not to a brotherly gaze, but to the raw hunger of a man. What would she do then? Would she scream? Or would the lonely woman within her finally awaken?

He pulled into the apartment's basement parking, killing the engine. The sudden silence was jarring. He turned to her, his heart pounding in his chest. "Mrs. Gupta," he said softly. "We are home."

Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep. She smiled at him, a sweet, innocent, brotherly smile. "Oh, I must have dozed off. Thank you, Ravi bhaiya."

[Luck by chance]

Chapter 4 - That Fateful Day

In the morning Chitra comes to Ankita while Ravi was having breakfast and tell her that she will have to go to her village because her mother is sick. The aroma of sizzling parathas filled the small kitchen as Ravi tore off another piece, his focus entirely on the plate before him, oblivious to the tension that suddenly thickened the air. Chitra stood in the doorway, her usual bright smile replaced by a shadow of worry that pulled at the corners of her mouth, her hands twisting the end of her worn dupatta. Ankita, pouring tea, noticed immediately and straightened up, her own movements stilling as she met Chitra's troubled gaze. "Didi," Chitra began, her voice barely a whisper that cut through Ravi's contented chewing, "my brother called from the village just now. Maa... she's been ill for a few days, but it's worse now. They've taken her to the clinic. I have to go.".

Ankita Says “Ok, take some money from me.”


Ravi stood by the car, his jaw tight with a frustration that had become his constant companion. He watched Ankita walk towards him, her saree—a vibrant mustard yellow—swaying around her ankles. Each day, his performance as the devoted "bhaiya" grew more polished, while the beast within him grew more restless.

"Ravi bhai, we need to go to Crawford Market today," she said, her voice bright and completely unaware of the turmoil she caused in him. "The vegetables there are much fresher."

"Of course, Mrs. Gupta," he replied, holding the door open for her. As she slid in, his eyes were drawn to the exposed skin of her waist, a flash of soft, warm brown that made his fingers twitch.

The market was a chaotic symphony of sights, sounds, and smells. Ravi stayed close, a shadow behind her, his senses overwhelmed. He watched her bend over a crate of bright red tomatoes, the fabric of her saree stretching taut across her buttocks. The shape was perfect, round and full, a masterpiece that made his cock begin to stir. He imagined himself behind her, not in a crowded market, but in the privacy of her bedroom, his hands gripping those hips as he...

"Madam, these tomatoes are as red as your lips," a young salesman leered, his eyes boldly roaming over Ankita's body. "And these brinjals... they are not as firm as..."

The comment, crude and direct, hit Ravi like a jolt of electricity. A wave of possessive anger and raw lust surged through him. His erection sprang to life, hard and demanding, pressing painfully against the seam of his trousers. He shot the salesman a murderous glare, but the boy had already turned to another customer.

Ankita, bless her oblivious soul, simply frowned at the boy's impertinence and moved on. Ravi followed, his mind a whirlwind of dark fantasies. He picked up a long, thick cucumber from a basket, its cool, smooth skin a poor substitute for what he truly wanted to hold. He walked behind her, his eyes glued to the hypnotic sway of her ass, his knuckles white as he gripped the vegetable. He pictured her bent over, that saree lifted, her body open and waiting for him. The frustration was a physical pain, a fire in his gut.

The drive back was silent and tense. Ravi's frustration had curdled into anger. She was right there, beside him, smelling of jasmine and fresh vegetables, her body inches away, yet she might as well have been on the moon. He couldn't touch her, couldn't have her. The injustice of it all made his hands tremble on the steering wheel.

Ankita's phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through the thick silence. She glanced at the screen, and a flicker of hope crossed her face before she answered. "Arjun? Beta, I was so happy to see your call..."

Her face fell as she listened. Ravi could hear the muffled, impatient voice of her son from the other end.

"No, Arjun, I am questioning about the money you are spending recklessly" Ankita's voice trembled. "I just wanted to talk... It's been two months since we last spoke... I am your mother, I worry."

There was a pause, and Ravi saw a single tear trace a path down her cheek.

"But the transfer you mentioned... it didn't go through. The bank said..." Her voice broke. "Fine. Fine. I won't bother you again."

She ended the call, her hand dropping to her lap. The silence in the car was now heavy with her sorrow. She stared out the window, her shoulders slumped, the vibrant energy from the market extinguished.

"Ravi," she said, her voice hollow. "Just... drive fast. I want to go home."

Her sadness, her vulnerability, should have been an opportunity for him. Instead, it fueled his own frustration. He was angry at her son, angry at her, angry at himself. He nodded, his face grim, and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car surged forward, weaving through the traffic with a recklessness that was foreign to him.

His eyes kept darting from the road to her. She had closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat, a single tear glistening on her cheek. His gaze dropped to her chest, the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath, the tantalizing curve visible above her saree's pallu. He was so lost in his fantasy, so consumed by his anger and lust, that he didn't see it until it was too late.

A massive truck, lumbering out of a side lane, filled his entire vision.

Time seemed to warp. Ravi's eyes widened in terror. He slammed his foot on the brake, the pedal hitting the floor with a sickening thud. The tires screamed in protest. The seatbelt slammed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him, holding him in place.

Ankita, without a belt, became a projectile. Ravi watched in horror as her body flew forward. Her head struck the dashboard with a dull, sickening crack. She crumpled against the passenger-side door, limp and silent.

The world screeched to a halt. The truck driver blared his horn and sped away. Ravi sat there, his heart hammering against his ribs, his ears ringing. He fumbled with his seatbelt, his hands shaking uncontrollably. "Mrs. Gupta? Ankita?" He reached for her, his fingers trembling as he touched her shoulder. She was unnaturally still. There was no blood, but a dark bruise was already forming on her forehead.

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through his lust and anger. "Ankita! Wake up!" He shook her gently, then more forcefully. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes closed. She was breathing, but it was shallow.

"Hospital. I have to get her to a hospital."

He drove like a madman, the car's engine screaming, his knuckles white on the wheel. He kept glancing at her pale face, the beautiful, trusting face of the woman he had been fantasizing about violating just minutes ago. A wave of nauseating guilt washed over him, but it was quickly pushed aside by the raw, primal need to save her. His Mrs. Gupta. He couldn't let her die.

The emergency room at City Hospital was a blur of chaos and sterile white. Ravi carried her in, his strong arms cradling her limp body, shouting for help. Nurses and a doctor swarmed them, taking her from him and placing her on a gurney. He was left standing alone, his shirt stained with her tears, his hands still shaking.

Hours passed. He paced the sterile corridor, his mind replaying the crash, the salesman's comment, his own reckless anger. The guilt was a physical weight now, pressing down on his chest.

Finally, a doctor approached him, a kind-faced man with tired eyes. "She's stable. A severe concussion, but no internal bleeding. She's resting now. You can see her."

Ravi followed him to a private room. Ankita lay on the bed, her face as pale as the sheets, an IV drip in her arm. She looked fragile, broken. He sat in the chair beside her bed, his large hand reaching out to gently hold her small, cool one. He watched her chest rise and fall, a rhythm that was now the most important thing in his world.

The doctor returned a few minutes later, holding a chart. He looked at Ravi, his expression sympathetic. He assumed the role of the concerned husband, the grieving partner.

"Mr. Gupta," the doctor said softly, his eyes on the chart. "Can you come here for a moment?"

[Luck by chance]

Chapter 5 - Luck By Chance

The name hung in the air between them. Mr. Gupta. Ravi looked from the doctor to the unconscious woman on the bed, his wife in the doctor's eyes, his prize in his own. A strange, powerful feeling surged through him, a dark thrill mixed with a terrifying sense of responsibility. He stood up, his face a mask of grim concern, and walked towards the doctor.

The corridor's sterile white walls seemed to close in on Ravi as he followed the doctor, the man's sympathetic eyes a stark contrast to the storm raging in his own chest. The doctor gestured towards a small consultation room, away from the prying ears of nurses and the worried whispers of other families. "Mr. Gupta," he began, his voice a low, confidential murmur. "Please, sit." Ravi sat, his body rigid. "Your employer is stable, as I said. The concussion is significant, but there's no swelling, no bleed. We're very optimistic about a full physical recovery." He paused, choosing his words with care. "However, during our examination, we noticed something... unusual. She's awake now, but she's... disoriented. It appears the impact has caused a specific type of amnesia." Ravi's heart hammered against his ribs. "Amnesia?" "Yes," the doctor confirmed, tapping his pen against the chart. "She remembers things. She knows her name is Ankita. She knows she has a son named Arjun. She understands relationships, the concept of a husband, a home. But the faces... the faces are gone. She can't connect the person to the relationship. It's a rare form of retrograde amnesia, often associated with trauma to the temporal lobe." Ravi was stunned, his mind a blank slate. He stared at the doctor, the words washing over him but failing to form a coherent thought. She doesn't remember faces. The phrase echoed in the sudden, cavernous emptiness of his mind. The predator, the schemer, the man who had spent weeks crafting a persona of trust and brotherly affection—all of it vanished, replaced by a profound, earth-shattering shock. "Mr. Gupta? Are you alright?" The doctor's voice cut through the fog. Ravi blinked, his throat dry. "Yes. Yes, doctor. I... I was just... shocked." "Of course," the doctor said, his expression full of professional empathy. "It's a lot to take in. The good news is that this is often temporary. With proper medication, rest, and gentle exposure to familiar people and places, the neural pathways can reconnect. It could take weeks, it could take months, but recovery is very possible." He scribbled on a prescription pad and tore off the sheet. "Here. This is for the inflammation and to help with the headaches. Start her on it tonight. Bring her back in a week for a follow-up." Ravi took the paper, his hand feeling strangely disconnected from his arm. He nodded mechanically. "Thank you, doctor."

He walked back to her private room, his steps slow, deliberate. He pushed the door open quietly. She was awake, sitting up against the pillows, her gaze fixed on the window. Her head was turned, giving him a view of her profile, the delicate curve of her neck, the bruise on her forehead a stark purple against her pale skin. She sensed his presence and turned. Her eyes, those beautiful, expressive eyes, met his. They were clear, but they held no recognition. They were the eyes of a stranger looking at a familiar room, searching for an anchor in a sea of confusion.

"Who... who are you?" she asked, her voice soft, hesitant.

Ravi's heart began to pound. He had to know. He had to test the limits of this strange, new reality. He pulled the chair closer to the bed, his face a careful mask of concern. "You don't remember me at all?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Ankita's brow furrowed in concentration. She looked at his face, her eyes scanning his features as if trying to read a map to a forgotten place. "Your face, your voice... it seems very familiar. I feel like I should know you." She paused, a flicker of frustration in her eyes. "But I can't place you. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Ravi said, his mind racing. "The doctor said this might happen. Do you... do you remember your husband?"

A shadow passed over her features, a wave of genuine grief that was untainted by a visual memory. "Yes," she whispered, her eyes welling with tears. "I know he's gone. I remember... I remember the pain. The emptiness. I remember he died of a heart attack. But..." she brought a hand to her temple, touching the bruise lightly, "I can't see his face. I can't remember what he looked like. It's like he's a ghost in my heart, but not in my head." She looked back at Ravi, her lost gaze finding a strange comfort in his steady one. "You were there, weren't you? You're connected to me. I feel it."

Ravi's blood ran cold and then hot with a dark, thrilling current. This was better than he could have ever imagined. He wasn't a stranger; he was a familiar void she was desperate to fill. "You need to rest, Ankita," he said, his voice soft and authoritative. "Don't try to force it. The doctor said it will come back." He stood up, tucking the blanket around her. "I'll take care of everything. Just focus on getting better."

He walked out of the room, his steps calm and measured, but inside, a storm was breaking. He stood in the hospital's chaotic lobby, the receipt crumpled in his hand. The bill was real. The responsibility was real. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Arjun's contact. He should call him. He had to call him. The son had a right to know. He pressed the dial button, the phone ringing once, twice... and then he ended the call. The action was impulsive, final. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. The doctor's words echoed in his mind: Gentle exposure to familiar people and places. He was the most familiar person in her life right now. And he would be the only one she saw. The hunt was over. The claiming had begun.