001

The Other Woman in My Bed

~ANAYA’S POV~

The Malhotra-Kapoor mansion was unusually quiet that night.

The halls were spotless, the vases filled with fresh lilies, and everything looked picture-perfect.

But the silence felt wrong.

I checked the gold clock on the shelf. 11:47 p.m.

Rohan was late. Again.

I looked at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. Hazel eyes stared back at me, dulled by too many sleepless nights.

I had spent two hours pinning my wavy chestnut hair into an elegant crown. I wore a midnight-blue silk saree—the one Rohan once said made me look unforgettable.

It was supposed to be a peace offering. A reminder that I was still his wife.

I felt like a ghost haunting my own home.

My stomach twisted tight. Downstairs, the saffron rice and traditional Rogan Josh I had spent all afternoon cooking sat stone-cold on the dining table, surrounded by melted candles.

"One more chance," I whispered to the empty room. "I'll give him one more chance."

I reached for my phone, but a sound stopped me. It wasn't the front door opening.

It was a laugh.

A woman's laugh—high-pitched, bubbly, and loud enough to shatter the quiet. It was coming from the guest suite at the end of the wing.

My heart beat against my ribs. My hands began to shake, rustling the heavy silk of my saree.

I moved down the corridor, my bare feet silent on the cold tiled floor. Every step made my stomach twist tighter.

As I approached the guest suite, the door was slightly ajar. A strip of warm light cut across the dark hallway floor.

"Rohan, stop," the woman giggled. "Did you even lock the front door? What if your wife walks in? She's probably lurking in the shadows like a ghost."

I froze.

"Anaya?" Rohan’s laugh was rough—a low, intimate sound he hadn't given me in years. "Did you lock the guest wing? Good. Then don't worry about her."

"She won't mind?"

"She won't do anything," Rohan said smoothly. "My wife is like the furniture in this house. Elegant, expensive, and completely lifeless. She’ll cry into her pillow, pray to her gods, and serve me breakfast tomorrow with a shaking hand. She’s too desperate to leave."

The air left my lungs.

Desperate.

Was that what I was?

I had stayed to save my father's name. I had stayed because my mother told me a good wife holds her home together, no matter how many thorns she has to step on. I had stayed because I thought my devotion could soften him.

I’d ignored lipstick on his shirts before. Late nights that came with flimsy excuses. Perfume that wasn’t mine staying on his jackets.

Every time, I convinced myself love was patient.

That marriage was worth fighting for.

"I never wanted this marriage anyway," Rohan scoffed. "It was business, pure and simple. Now, shut up and come here."

I heard the heavy rustle of sheets and the low hum of her laughter.

I turned to walk away, but then the guest bathroom door swung open further, spilling more light into the room.

I saw her.

She was young, blonde, and glowing with the arrogant confidence of a woman who knew she had won. But it wasn't her face that stopped my breathing.

It was what she was wearing.

It was my blush-pink silk robe. The one my grandmother Rosalie had hand-stitched for me back in France.

It was embroidered with delicate silver threads—the last piece of home I had left.

Seeing her skin against that silk felt like a blade through my chest.

She was wearing the last piece of my old life while lying in my husband’s bed.

Something inside me went quiet.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t push the door open and demand an explanation.

They didn’t deserve my tears, and they certainly didn’t deserve my rage.

I turned around and walked back to the master bedroom.

My actions were unhurried, exact, and careful. I didn't glance downstairs at the ruined dinner. I didn't look at the expensive artwork lining the walls.

I reached the vanity and sat down.

My hands were completely steady now.

Our framed wedding photo smiled back at me from the bedside table—two strangers playing dress-up for the cameras.

I picked it up and turned it face down on the wood.

Then, I raised my left hand.

The five-carat diamond ring glowed mockingly under the vanity lights. It had always felt like a shackle, heavy and cold.

I twisted it off my finger with one quick pull.

The skin underneath was pale, marked by the deep indent of the band—a permanent mark of the three years I had wasted.

I set the ring on the cold marble vanity with a quiet clink.

"I'm done," I whispered to the quiet room.