Page 42 of Mrs. Rathore

“Not yet, but soon,” I replied, offering him a hopeful smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

Just then, Aryan walked into the room, ending a phone call. “I need to visit Aarav’s school and collect his transfer certificate. We’re shifting him to Central Public School,” he announced with his usual calm. “If you’re not tired, wait in the car. I’ll handle the paperwork quickly.”

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze. A pang of guilt twisted in my stomach. The message I sent to his ex, what if he found out?

Would he kill me?

Or worse… What if Ira did something reckless?

He wheeled me to the car in silence, lifting me into the passenger seat as though it were routine. No complaints. No irritation. Not even a sigh.

And he looked… fine. Fresh. Collected. Any other man would’ve lashed out or exploded in frustration by now, but Aryan? He was unreadable. Like steel wrapped in silence.

I stared at him as he slid into the driver’s seat. A cruel thought whispered through my mind.

I stole his smile and replaced it with bitterness.

I stole his love and served him with myself.

Maybe if he screamed at me, maybe if he hurled his usual cruel words… I wouldn’t feel so guilty.

“Why aren’t you angry today?” I blurted out, surprising even myself. “Come on, Aryan. Say it. Insult me. Shout. Rip me apart if that’s what you need.”

He glanced at me briefly, then buckled his seatbelt. “I don’t waste my energy on things that don’t matter,” he said coldly.

Ouch.

I turned toward the window, my fingers tapping against the glass. “I’m bored,” I admitted, trying to shift the tension. “Tell me something about your duty. Is it anything like what they show in movies? Do you jump out of helicopters and sneak through jungles in the dead of night?”

He exhaled softly as the engine rumbled to life. “My duty is my life,” he said, calm and reverent. “Just like your dance was yours.”

I turned to him, startled by the unexpected comparison. Before I could respond, he glanced at me again and in that flicker of eye contact, I saw something crack. Regret. Guilt. Recognition of my silence.

“I’ve been serving for eight years,” he added quickly, like he was trying to shift the mood. “That’s not counting my NDA and IMA training. I’ve had only a few postings mostly when I got promoted or when they wanted to push my limits.”

“That’s… actually really cool,” I said, my voice softer now. “You must’ve started really young. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-eight.”

My eyes widened. “So you joined the NDA when you were just seventeen?”

He nodded, a quiet smile curving his lips. “Right after school. It was all I ever wanted.”

His confidence stirred something strange in me, admiration, maybe even envy.

“And you?” he asked, glancing my way. “When did you start dancing?”

“Five,” I answered with a wistful smile. “Mummy says I used to twirl before I could even walk properly. Sometimes I dream inkathak. Once, I woke up mid-spin on the floor and scared my poor cat half to death.”

He laughed. It was an unguarded, genuine sound and it warmed something cold in me.

“I can actually picture that. Poor cat,” he teased.

We both chuckled, the sound wrapping around us like a fragile truce. For a moment, it felt easy. Natural. As if there was no bitterness between us, no tangled past weighing us down.

Then came the silence. Abrupt. Heavy.

“We were supposed to fight,” I whispered, the words slipping out like a confession.

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