The front door clicked shut, severing them from the outside world, but the silence inside was a blade. Rohan dropped his keys on the table. Rati slipped off her sandals. They didn’t look at each other, two strangers brought together by some cruel accident.

There were no words. No “Are you tired?” No “Is everything alright?” Rati went straight to the bedroom; Rohan, to the bathroom. The sound of the shower running, then silence. Rati sat on the bed, removed her watch, and lay down, her eyes fixed on the slow, hypnotic spin of the ceiling fan.

Soon, Rohan emerged, changed, and lay down on the other side of the bed. They were on the same mattress, inches apart, but a chasm of miles stretched between them.

Rati

Her world was still spinning. Her mind felt like it was about to fracture. The traditional, shy Rati from Ujjain—what had she become tonight? Fragments of memory flashed like lightning: the darkness of the car, the press of unknown hands, Rohan’s vacant stare, and then… Arjun’s eyes.

Two men. On her body. And she… why hadn’t she fought back? Shame and guilt burned through her, a visceral heat. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase the images, but they were seared onto the backs of her eyelids. Bhavesh’s grip, Sameer’s probing, the uncontrollable tremors of her own body…

But beneath that disgusting mire of violation, another feeling coiled, one that disturbed her even more: a strange, deep satisfaction. The satisfaction she’d felt under Arjun’s gaze. For the first time, someone had truly seen her. Not just loved or desired her, like Rohan, but seen her. The world’s praise had always been for the surface. Tonight, someone had looked past her veiled existence and appreciated the raw, naked reality. And the hunger for that appreciation had been so profound, so absolute, that she had allowed everything to happen. Perhaps… perhaps she had even offered herself?

The thought was an electric shock. Was she complicit? Had her stillness, her final, deliberate pose, been an encouragement? And Arjun… if he was part of it, why did he do nothing but watch? Was he a voyeur, interested only in the spectacle? Or was he trapped, just as she was? And Rohan… dear God, Rohan. Did he truly know nothing? Was his silence just the alcohol? Or had he seen it all and simply chosen to look away? The questions were a vortex, pulling her down into the rubble of her own life.

Rohan

He lay with his eyes closed, but sleep was a distant country. His head throbbed with a hangover, but a colder, sharper ache cut through it: doubt. His memory of the night was a swamp, but one image surfaced with sickening clarity. The moment he came to his senses after being sick, looking in the rear-view mirror. Sameer and Bhavesh were passed out. But Rati… Rati was frantically pulling her clothes into place, her movements furtive and panicked. And Arjun, his sober childhood friend, was watching her. His face was tense, his eyes fixed on the mirror.

Why was she adjusting her clothes like that? And why was Arjun, the only one with a clear head, so wound up? The other two were gone to the world. Whatever had happened, it had happened between his wife and his friend. The thought was a shard of ice in his gut. His Rati, the girl who was hesitant to go to the market alone, and Arjun, the friend he trusted implicitly.

No. It was impossible. It had to be the drink twisting things, making him see shadows where there was nothing. But the image was too vivid, too specific. The worm of doubt was not just gnawing at him; it was feasting. He didn’t know what to believe—his wife’s character of years, or the cold, hard image seared into his memory.

He forced a deep breath. He would say nothing. Not yet. To accuse them would be to make it real. He would pretend it was the alcohol, a bad dream. He would watch them. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could still see it: his wife’s panicked hands, and his friend’s watchful eyes.

Arjun

He sat in the parked car on a quiet, deserted street, engine off, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The night replayed in his mind, a broken film reel of terrifying clarity.

What was that? On one hand, the brutal savagery of two drunken men. On the other, Rohan’s stony silence. But at the center of the storm was Rati. The quiet, almost timid Rati from the party, and the Rati in the car. The woman who had no control over her body, but whose eyes… whose eyes had been locked on his. While they were defiling her, she had stared at him without flinching. Why?

Was she pleading for help? No, there was no fear in her eyes. Anger? No, not that either. So what was it? That direct, unwavering gaze… was it an invitation? The thought disgusted him, but it wouldn’t leave. The way she had looked at him, the way her body had seemed to respond to his watching gaze… it felt like a summons.

And her composure… the way she endured it without shattering, the way her eyes remained fixed on him… had this been the first time? If so, how could anyone be so steady? And if it had happened before, did Rohan know? Was this a regular, twisted ritual?

The questions were driving him mad. Nothing added up. It wasn’t force, but it wasn’t consent. Rohan’s behavior was the biggest enigma of all. Arjun finally understood that he had stumbled into something deeply wrong and perverse. But his mind kept returning to one image: Rati’s face, slick with sweat, contorted in a silent scream, her eyes boring into his. That face, he knew, would not let him sleep tonight.

The Morning

When Rati woke, the other side of the bed was cold. Rohan had already left for the office. No note. No word. It was better this way.

She forced herself to the bathroom and locked the door. For the first time, she met her own eyes in the mirror. They were red-rimmed and hollow. Her lips were cracked. Faint, bluish marks bloomed on her neck, a testament to the night’s savagery. But the most terrifying part was her own expression—or lack thereof. It was calm. Blank. An unnerving, placid stillness.

She asked the reflection a silent question. “Was I just a victim?”

And from a deep, quiet place inside her, a trembling voice answered. “Or was I involved… because I liked being watched?”

The question was so monstrous, so forbidden, that her knees gave out. She sank to the cold tile floor, shaking. She covered her face, but no tears came. There was fear, disgust, anger… but regret? Strangely, no. There was no sting of regret.

She stood, moving as if in someone else’s body, and dressed in the plainest, most colorless clothes she owned. Before leaving the bathroom, she looked in the mirror one last time at the calm, emotionless stranger staring back.

“Maybe,” she whispered, the sound so faint she barely heard it herself. “Maybe this is the real me now. And maybe… whatever happens next, it won’t be a lie.”