Page 106 of Mrs. Rathore

Maybe he apologized that day, but it meant nothing. He felt guilty, not sorry.

Maybe he kissed me that day, but it meant nothing. I was just one of the many women he’d kissed and forgotten.

Maybe he gave me those ankle bells, but it meant nothing. He only gave them to replace the ones he destroyed.

And now, he wrote these sweet, caring letters to Ira. If only… if only he had given me just 1% of that kindness he gave her, I might have felt happy.

Suddenly, my phone rang, snapping me out of my thoughts. I glanced at the screen and it was Papa.

I quickly picked up and walked away from the crowd to a quieter corner.

The moment I heard his voice, my body froze. A second later, the phone slipped from my hands.

Tears filled my eyes.

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Chapter 42

ARYAN

It had been a year. A whole year since I last saw my family - my mom’s gentle smile, my dad’s proud look, the fun my sister had at the dining table. A year since I felt truly at home.

Yesterday marked twelve months of tough work without using my personal phone to call them. Sure, I’d sent a few letters to Ira and occasionally used the satellite phone when I absolutely had to. But my own phone? It stayed untouched, like a useless arm, a link to a world I’d cut myself from.

I was stationed in a dangerous, empty place where even the wind felt like a warning. No civilians were allowed. It was just us, the Indian Army, holding our ground, day after day. And in this quiet warzone, time felt strange and distorted.

I had a chance to go home for a week. A short, precious break that most soldiers dream of. But I let it go. I transferred my chance to Captain Rana, another officer. He'd just become a dad of a baby girl, two months old. He hadn't seen her, not even a picture. When he told me, his voice cracked a little, but it was enough for me to hear how much he was hurting. That pain of being away? I knew it too well. So I went to our commanding officer and said, "I assume his position and carry out his responsibilities.”

Because sometimes, duty isn't just about holding a gun or guarding a spot; it's about being there for each other when it truly matters.

That night, as the cold crept into my tent and silence wrapped around me, I dug through my bag for some clean socks. My fingers hit something hard, metal. Curious, I pulled it out.

A single black ghungroo.

My heart skipped a beat.

I stared at it in my hand, the tiny bell looking so delicate, so out of place among my army gear. I didn’t know why I took it. Why, in a moment before leaving, I’d plucked one tiny ghungroo from her ankle belt and put it in my bag. It wasn't like me. It isn’t me. But I did it anyway.

Maybe I kept it to remember who she was. Maybe I kept it so I’d never forget what she did to me. Maybe I kept it so I wouldn’t forget how much I hated her.

Avni Rathore. My wife. My forced wife.

The woman I couldn’t stop thinking about for the past year. Our first anniversary passed. There were no calls and no messages. I didn’t even bother to acknowledge the date. Why would I? That day didn't feel like love but it felt like a punishment.

And yet… I heard about her mother. Six months ago, she passed away.

I didn't ask for emergency leave, even though I easily could have. Just a couple of days to offer my sympathy, to stand by her as her world fell apart. But I didn't go and I told myself she didn't deserve that from me.

And yet… I regretted it.

My father took a week off and went. He held her hand and sat with her family. Paid his respects. And me? I stayed put. Maybe because I'm a jerk. Maybe because I couldn't bring myself to see her cry. Because even now, after everything, I still couldn’t stand the sight of her tears. They burned me every single time like acid on my skin. They left marks I couldn’t wash away.

I remembered her on that porch, spinning, lost in her dance. I remembered her collapsing on the floor, crying as if something inside her had completely broken. And I remembered buying her a new pair of ankle belts secretly because some part of me didn't want her to give up. Because some part of me still wanted to give her hope.

And yes, God help me, I still wanted to kiss her. Not for love. Not for desire. But because maybe, if I kissed her, I could take away some of her pain.

A few days ago, I spoke to my father again. He told me Avni had been living at her father’s house for the past three months. Said she hadn’t wanted to return to the Rathore mansion, and she looked different, stronger, and colder.

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