Chapter 4: The Villain's Right
The cigarette hissed as he ground it into the porcelain of her discarded teacup on the nightstand. The action was slow, deliberate, final. Prema’s voice, bright with news of their perfect child, still echoed in the hollows of his ears. The sound seemed to crystallize the air in the room, turning the sweat on his skin cold for a single, piercing second.
Then his hand moved, rough and purposeful, under the rumpled sheet. He found the wet heat between her legs, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of her inner thigh. Shilpa flinched, a real shudder this time, her body sore from his first, furious taking.
“Three hours,” Mohan said, his voice a low rasp against her ear. The words weren’t for her pleasure; they were a sentence. “She’s gone for three hours. That means I get to wreck this greedy little hole twice more before she gets back.”
He shoved two thick fingers inside her without ceremony. She was still swollen, slick from him and from her own traitorous excitement. A sharp gasp tore from her throat, her back arching off the silk.
“Stop,” she whimpered, the act returning as she pushed weakly at his wrist. “Please, jiju, it hurts.” Her eyes were wide, glistening with manufactured tears.
He leaned over her, his bulk blocking the dim light from the lamp. He could smell his own scent on her, mingled with the expensive perfume she’d stolen from Prema’s dresser. The duality of it—his wife’s fragrance on his mistress’s skin—sent a dark, electric thrill through his gut. “You wanted to be used,” he growled. “So be used. Scream for me like the virgin saali you pretend to be. Let the whole fucking neighborhood hear.”
He began to move his fingers, a cruel, twisting mimicry. Her resistance melted instantly into a ragged moan. She was a spectacular fraud. Her hips rocked to meet his hand, her mouth falling open. “Yes,” she hissed, the whisper laced with shame and victory. “Fuck.”
He withdrew his fingers, slick and shining in the lamplight. He brought them to her lips. “Taste,” he commanded. “Taste what you begged for.”
Her tongue darted out, obedient, and her eyes locked on his as she sucked his fingers clean. The obscenity of the gesture, performed in Prema’s bed, in Prema’s house, was absolute. It was the final brick in a wall of mutual damnation.
He didn’t kiss her. Kissing was for Prema. This was something else—a transaction of flesh and fury. He flipped her onto her stomach, the crimson silk bunching beneath her. He positioned himself behind her, his hands gripping the soft flesh of her hips. He entered her again, this time with a slower, more grinding intensity. It was less about passion now than possession, an act of mapping a conquered territory.
The room filled with the sound of it—the rhythmic creak of the bed, the wet slap of skin, his guttural exhales, her choked, sobbing cries that were, he knew, purely for show. She pressed her face into the pillow, her cries muffled. “Harder,” she begged, the word half-swallowed by the fabric. “I’m your dirty saali, ruin me.”
He complied, each thrust a hammer blow driving her deeper into the mattress. His mind, detached and icy, calculated the risk. The walls were thick. The master bedroom was on the other side of the house. The gardeners had left for the day. Three hours was a lifetime. It was an ocean of time in which to drown.
After he finished the second time, they lay in a heap of exhausted, sweating limbs. The room stank of sex and betrayal. He lit another cigarette, the flare of the lighter harsh in the gloom. Shilpa lay curled on her side, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. The vulnerable mask was gone, replaced by a look of smug, feline satisfaction.
“She really has no idea, does she?” Shilpa said, her voice husky. She traced a finger along a fresh bruise on her hip.
Mohan exhaled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “No.”
“You’re good at this. The lying.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “All that sweet husband stuff. The foot rubs. The baby talk. It’s quite a performance.”
“It’s not a performance with her.” The words came out before he could stop them, sharp and true.
Shilpa’s smile was a thin, cruel slash. “Oh, please. You’re in here fucking her cousin raw while she’s out buying tiny socks. You think that makes you loyal?” She laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “You’re just a man who wants his cake and to fuck the baker too.”
Anger, hot and immediate, surged through him. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” she challenged, her eyes gleaming. “You’ll punish me? You already did. Twice.” She leaned into his grip, her breath warm on his knuckles. “Face it, jiju. You like this. You like the danger. You like that I’m her blood, that I smell like her, that I’m in her bed. You like that it’s wrong. It turns you on more than her pure, wifely love ever could.”
He released her as if burned. He stood up, his body a tense silhouette against the window. The truth of her words was a poison settling in his veins. She had seen the rotten core of it and named it. This wasn’t about Shilpa. It was about the thrill of the transgression itself, the violent reclaiming of his own agency in a life that had become a placid, predictable script.
“Get up,” he said, his back to her. “Clean yourself. The bathroom. Now.”
She slid off the bed, her movements languid, victorious. She paused at the door to the ensuite, naked and unashamed. “What about the third time? You said twice more. We’ve only had one more.”
He turned. The cold control was back, settling over him like armor. “I decide the rules. I decide the count. Get in the shower. I don’t want to smell you on me.”
She shrugged and disappeared into the bathroom. The lock clicked—a petty, pointless gesture. He listened to the water start, a mundane, domestic sound that felt violently out of place.
He moved quickly. He stripped the soiled sheets from the bed, balling them up. He found fresh linens in the closet, making the bed with a soldier’s efficiency. He opened the balcony doors, letting the cool evening air wash in, chasing the musk away. He sprayed a burst of Prema’s room freshener—a light, floral scent. He erased the physical evidence with a methodical, grim focus.
By the time Shilpa emerged, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp, the room looked pristine. Innocent. He was dressed, leaning against the doorframe, watching her.
“You’re good at this too,” she said, nodding at the freshly made bed.
“We’re done,” he stated, his voice devoid of all emotion. “This ends now.”
She laughed, a genuine, ringing laugh this time. “It doesn’t end. Not until I say it does.” She walked up to him, her damp hand resting flat on his chest. “You think you can fuck me like that and then just… go back to playing house? That smell is under your skin now, jiju. Every time you look at her, you’ll see me. Every time you touch her, you’ll remember how I felt.”
He removed her hand, his grip firm. “Get dressed. Go downstairs. Act normal.”
“Or?” she teased, her head tilted.
“Or I will throw you out of this house tonight, pregnant cousin or not, and tell Prema you tried to seduce me. Who do you think she’ll believe?”
The smugness drained from her face, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear. He saw it, and he knew he’d found a lever. Her position here, her comfort, her access—it all depended on Prema’s goodwill.
She retreated, pulling on clothes in silence. The dynamic had shifted once more, a silent war declared in the space between them.
Downstairs, they sat in the living room with a cricket match playing silently on the TV. The air was thick with unsaid things. When Prema returned, her cheeks flushed from the autumn breeze, carrying a small bag of baby clothes, the contrast was jarring.
“Everything okay?” she asked, looking between them.
“Fine,” Mohan said, rising to kiss her, his lips a careful, practiced comfort on her forehead. He breathed in her clean, familiar scent. Jasmine and home. “Just tired. Shilpa was… reading.”
Prema beamed, touching her stomach. “The baby was kicking! Right there on the ultrasound screen. A little fighter.” She looked at Shilpa. “You’ll be an auntie!”
Shilpa smiled, the perfect picture of a devoted cousin. “I can’t wait, didi.”
Later, in the sanctity of their own bedroom, with Prema asleep beside him, her hand resting protectively over her stomach, Mohan stared at the ceiling. Shilpa’s words echoed in the dark.
You’ll remember how I felt.
He could still feel it. The desperate, clutching heat of her. The forbidden fury of the act. It was a stain no amount of soap or fresh linen could erase. It was etched into his muscle memory, a dark alternate pathway in his brain.
Down the hall, in the guest room, Shilpa lay awake in the freshly made bed. She ran a hand over the cool, clean sheets he had so efficiently replaced. A slow smile spread across her face in the darkness. He had cleaned up the mess. He had hidden the evidence. But in doing so, he had admitted the crime. He was complicit. They were partners now, bound not by love or even lust, but by a shared, terrible secret.
She closed her eyes, the phantom ache between her legs a sweet, persistent reminder. It had only just begun.
It had only just begun. The knowledge sat between them at breakfast, a third presence more solid than the steam rising from Prema’s tea. Mohan buttered his toast with sharp, precise strokes. Shilpa scrolled her phone, her foot, bare and with a fading bruise on the ankle, brushing against his calf beneath the table. He didn’t pull away.
“You’re quiet,” Prema said, spreading jam. She looked radiant, her sickness faded into a glowing calm.
“Just thinking about the contractor for the nursery,” Mohan said. The lie was effortless, oiled by weeks of practice. “He’s trying to overcharge for the custom shelving.”
Shilpa’s foot pressed harder. “You should be firm, jiju. Don’t let people take advantage. They can smell weakness.” She took a sip of juice, her eyes on his over the rim. “They’ll just keep pushing for more if they think they can get it.”
Later, while Prema napped on the sun-drenched sofa, Mohan found Shilpa in the garden. She was brutally deadheading roses, the thorns tearing at her fingers without care. “You should wear gloves,” he said, his voice low.
“I like the sting,” she replied, not turning. “It’s honest.” She finally looked at him, a smudge of soil on her cheek. “Unlike you. Do you even remember her taste? Or has mine overwritten it?”
“Don’t.”
“Or what?” She dropped the shears. They sank into the soft earth. “You’re all threats and post-come clarity. It’s boring.” She stepped closer, the scent of crushed rose petals and dirt rising from her skin. “I want to see it again. That look you had when you were on top of me. Not the husband. The man who takes.”
He grabbed her wrist, pulling her behind the thick screen of a blooming bougainvillea. Its thorns caught at her shirt. “This isn’t a game.”
“Everything’s a game. You’re just finally playing.” She yanked her wrist free and instead grabbed the front of his trousers, her hand a bold, shocking pressure. “She’s right there. Twenty feet away. What’s the matter? Not thrilling enough anymore?”
His hand shot out, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head back. A low, pained sound escaped her throat, but her eyes glittered with triumph. This was the currency she traded in: risk, exposure, the electric chance of discovery. He hated how it vibrated through him, too.
He shoved her away. “Touch me again and I’ll break your fingers.”
She laughed, rubbing her scalp. “Promises, promises.”
The confrontation left a residue in the air for days. Mohan spent longer at the office. He hired the contractor at full price just to have the decision made. At home, Prema’s body continued its quiet, miraculous transformation. Her rounded stomach became a fact, a permanent and gentle reproach he felt every time he looked at her.
He woke one night to the bed shaking. Prema was sitting up, a silent gasp caught in her throat, her hands craditing her belly. “Mohan,” she whispered, panic stitching her voice. “Something’s wrong. A cramp. A sharp one.”
He was instantly awake, adrenaline burning away sleep. He fumbled for the lamp. In the yellow light, her face was pale. Down the hall, they heard a door open. Shilpa appeared in the doorway, her hair mussed with sleep, wearing only a thin tank top and shorts. “Didi? What’s wrong?”
“A pain,” Prema breathed, her eyes wide with fear.
“Call Dr. Mehta,” Mohan said to Shilpa, his voice surprisingly steady. He was already pulling on pants. “My phone’s on the dresser.”
As Shilpa picked up the phone, her movements efficient, Mohan helped Prema stand. A sheen of sweat coated her upper lip. He guided her toward the bathroom, a hand on the small of her back. “Just breathe, jaanu. It’s probably nothing. Just a Braxton Hicks.”
“It doesn’t feel like nothing,” she cried, a tear slipping free.
Shilpa followed them to the bathroom door, the phone to her ear, relaying information to the doctor’ service. Her eyes, however, were on Mohan. They tracked the intimate way his hand splayed across Prema’s back, the tender worry etched into his profile. Something in her hardened.
Prema leaned over the sink, breathing deeply. “It’s easing. Oh, thank god, it’s easing.”
The doctor called back, Shilpa handing the phone to Mohan. He listened, nodding, his eyes closed in relief. “Yes. Yes, understood. We’ll come in first thing tomorrow for a check, but just rest tonight. Thank you, Doctor.” He hung up and gathered Prema into his arms. “It’s okay. He says it can be normal. We’ll get it checked, but you need to lie down.”
He helped her back to bed, tucking the sheets around her with a gentleness that was completely unfeigned. Shilpa watched from the doorway, a silent statue. When Prema was settled, Mohan looked up at her. “You can go back to bed. Thank you.”
Shilpa didn’t move. “I’ll make some herbal tea for didi. It’ll help her nerves.” She turned and walked toward the stairs.
Mohan sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Prema’s hair until her breathing evened into sleep. The scare had hollowed him out, filling him with a cold, clarifying terror. This was real. This was everything. He waited ten full minutes before slipping out.
The kitchen was dark, lit only by the moonlight through the window. Shilpa stood at the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. She didn't turn as he entered.
“She’s asleep,” he said.
“Good.”
The kettle whistled. She poured the steaming water into a mug, the sound loud in the silence. She finally turned, leaning back against the counter, cradling the hot mug. “You looked so scared,” she said. Her voice was quiet, stripped of its usual taunting edge. It was somehow worse. “I’ve never seen you look like that. Not even when you were fucking me.”
“Don’t.”
“It made me wonder,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “What would it take? If something really did go wrong with the baby. Would you even remember my name? Or would I just cease to exist?” She took a slow sip of tea, her eyes watching him over the rim. “I think I’d cease. I’d be a ghost in this house before the ambulance arrived.”
He had no answer. The truth of it was a vacuum.
She put the mug down. It clicked softly on the granite. “You love her. I get it. It’s sickening, but I get it.” She walked toward him, stopping just inside his personal space. The moonlight caught the angles of her face. “But you want me, too. And that want is a living thing now. You can’t starve it. It’ll just make it mean.”
She reached out. This time, her touch was not a groping provocation. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, down the tense cord of his neck, to where his t-shirt covered his chest. It was a possessor’s touch, terrifying in its softness. “You don’t get to be just a husband anymore. You’re this, too. You belong to this, too.”
He captured her wrist. But he didn’t throw it off. He just held it there, feeling the frantic rabbit-pulse beneath his thumb. His own breathing felt too loud. The house, with his sleeping, pregnant wife above them, seemed to hold its breath.
Shilpa leaned in, her lips a hair’s breadth from his. “Tell me to stop,” she whispered, her breath warm.
He said nothing. The silence was its own damnation.
Her mouth found his. It was not the violent clash he’d initiated in her room. This was slow, searching, deeply knowing. She kissed him with the confidence of someone who had mapped his body, who had felt him break inside hers. She kissed him like she owned a part of him, and the most horrifying thing was the way his body responded, a traitorous surge of heat that had nothing to do with Prema’s safe, familiar love.
His hands came up, not to push her away, but to grip her hips, pulling her flush against him. The counter dug into his back. A low groan vibrated in his throat, swallowed by her mouth. This was worse. This was a thousand times worse. This was choice, not frenzy.
A floorboard creaked overhead.
They froze, mouths still locked. The sound was faint, unmistakable—the shift of weight on an old wooden board outside their bedroom. Prema was awake. She was moving.
Mohan shoved Shilpa back, his heart hammering against his ribs. She stumbled, catching herself on the opposite counter, her eyes wide with a different kind of excitement. The danger was now real, immediate, and shared.
Footsteps. Slow, uncertain. Headed toward the top of the stairs.
Mohan’s mind raced, blank. Shilpa’s eyes darted around the dark kitchen. She saw the mug of tea. In one fluid motion, she swept it off the counter. It hit the tile floor with a shocking, explosive crash. Porcelain shards and hot liquid sprayed across the floor.
SHE SCREAMS.
The scream was perfect—a sharp, startled sound ripped from her lungs, convincingly laced with pain. Mohan’s mind, which had frozen, snapped into a terrible, clear focus. He dropped to his knees, not toward her, but toward the shattered mess. “Shilpa! Are you cut?” he called, his voice booming with a concern meant to travel upstairs.
He heard Prema’s frantic footsteps on the stairs. “What happened?!”
“It’s nothing, didi!” Shilpa cried, her voice trembling. She held up a finger, a thin line of red welling from a superficial slice. “The mug slipped. I’m so clumsy.” Her eyes, when they flicked to Mohan, were dry and utterly lucid.
Prema rushed in, her robe pulled tight, her face pale from the earlier scare. “Oh, beta! Let me see.” She fussed over Shilpa’s finger, leading her to the sink to rinse it. Mohan busied himself with collecting the sharp, wet shards, his hands steady. The performance was seamless. It was a team effort, and the teamwork was more intimate than any kiss.
“I just wanted to make you tea,” Shilpa mumbled to Prema, leaning into her cousin’s mothering. “After your pain.”
“You’re so sweet,” Prema murmured, hugging her. “But you scared me to death.”
Over Prema’s shoulder, Shilpa looked at Mohan. She gave him a small, private smile. They had created a shared memory now, a collaborative lie. The bond tightened, a garrote of mutual complicity.
Days bled into weeks, the nursery shelving was installed, and the doctor pronounced the pregnancy robust. Prema’s world narrowed to a gentle, hopeful orbit of childbirth classes and prenatal vitamins. Her friend Naina, eight months pregnant herself, became a frequent companion.
“Naina’s dragging me to this maternity spa day,” Prema announced one Saturday, slipping on her shoes. “It’s at the Oberoi. Pedicures, facials, the works. She says we need to pamper ourselves before the chaos.”
Mohan looked up from his laptop. “How long?”
“Hours, jaanu. Don’t wait lunch.” She kissed him, her belly brushing his arm. “You’ll be okay? Shilpa’s here.”
“We’ll manage,” he said, his voice neutral.
The moment the car pulled away, the air in the house changed. It became charged, waiting. Mohan stood in the foyer, listening to the silence. He knew the script. He felt it coiling in his gut, a dark and familiar hunger. He walked to the living room and poured himself a finger of whiskey, drinking it neat. It burned a path down his throat, fueling the fire.
He found her in the garden again, but she wasn’t gardening. She was sitting on the wrought-iron bench, scrolling her phone. She wore a simple yellow sundress, her hair in a loose braid. She looked young, almost demure. The picture of a harmless saali.
“She’s gone,” he stated, his voice flat.
Shilpa looked up, her eyes wide and guileless. “For a while, yes. Did you need something, jiju?” She played her part flawlessly, the innocent cousin, oblivious to the danger in the house.
The act enraged him. It stripped him of pretense, casting him immediately as the aggressor. He was the villain jiju, and the role fit him like a second skin. He strode toward her, his shadow falling over her. “Get up.”
“Why?” she asked, feigning confusion, shrinking back into the bench. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer with words. He grabbed her upper arm, his fingers digging in, and hauled her to her feet. The phone clattered to the flagstones. “Mohan! You’re hurting me!” she cried, her struggle beginning—a performance of weak, fluttering resistance.
“Shut up,” he growled, pulling her toward the house. She dug her heels in, she pulled against his grip, her whimpers painting him a monster. He liked it. He felt the raw, unsculpted power of it, the freedom from having to be good. He half-dragged her through the living room, past the spot where they’d cleaned up the broken mug, and up the stairs.
“No, please! Jiju, no!” Her pleas were music. They were the soundtrack to his corruption.
He shoved her through the door of the guest room, the room with the crimson silk sheets. She stumbled, catching herself on the bedpost, her back to him. She turned, her chest heaving, her eyes terrified and alive. “What are you doing? Prema didi will be back!”
“Not for hours,” he said, kicking the door shut. The lock clicked. The sound was final.
He advanced. She backed away until her legs hit the bed, and she fell onto it, scrambling backward. “Don’t come near me!”
He fell on her. It was not a embrace. It was a capture. His body pinned hers, his weight crushing her feigned struggles into the silk. He grasped her wrists in one large hand and wrenched them above her head, pinning them to the headboard. She whimpered, turning her face away.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She didn’t. He used his free hand to grab her jaw, forcing her face toward his. Her eyes were swimming with tears. Real ones, born of excitement, not fear. “You want this,” he whispered, his mouth an inch from hers. “You’ve wanted it since you walked in here. Your tight little saali cunt has been begging for it.”
“I haven’t!” she sobbed, but her hips arched involuntarily against the hard line of his erection straining through his trousers.
He released her jaw and tore at the front of her sundress. Buttons pinged against the wall. She cried out, a sharp, genuine sound as the fabric gave way. He didn’t bother undressing her fully. He yanked her panties down, the cotton tearing. He unfastened his own pants, freeing himself, rudely hard and impatient.
He positioned himself at her entrance. She squeezed her eyes shut, a tear tracing a path to her ear. “Please don’t.”
He thrust into her in one brutal, uninterrupted motion. She gasped, her body bowing off the bed, a choked scream caught in her throat. She was wet, impossibly so, her body welcoming the invasion even as her voice protested. He started to move, a relentless, deep rhythm in the missionary position, his eyes locked on her face. Every thrust was a punishment for her pretense, for his own weakness, for the perfect, simple life he was methodically destroying.
“You like it,” he grunted, pistoning into her. “Feel how you’re squeezing me. You’re a liar. A filthy, lying whore.”
She could only moan, her resistance melting into a fervent, clutching acceptance, her legs winding around his hips to pull him deeper. The bed slammed against the wall with their rhythm.
The door opened.
It didn’t creak. The handle turned silently, and there was a rush of cooler air from the hall.
Mohan froze, buried deep inside Shilpa. He turned his head.
Prema stood in the doorway. Her spa bag hung limply from her hand. Her face was a blank page, the comprehension slowly, horrifically dawning in her eyes. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her ash-grey. She didn’t scream. She made no sound at all.
Shilpa’s eyes flew open. Seeing Prema, she erupted into frantic, believable panic. “Didi! No! He’s— he’s forcing me!” She pushed weakly at Mohan’s chest, a pathetic, fluttering motion. “Get off! Get off me, you animal!”
Mohan looked down at Shilpa’s terrified face, then back at his wife’s shattered expression. A strange, terrible calm settled over him. The pretense was over. The mask was gone. This was the exposed nerve.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t pull out. Instead, he leaned down, his body still intimately joined with Shilpa’s, and reached for the nightstand. He retrieved his cigarette case and lighter. He straightened up, still moving inside Shilpa with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, a grotesque continuation of the act.
He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling. A wicked, placid smile touched his lips.
“Your mistake, Prema,” he said, his voice conversational, even tender, as he thrust deeper, making Shilpa gasp. “Leaving a saali like this…” he glanced down at Shilpa’s exposed, quivering body, “…alone in a house with a man like me.” He took another drag. “Look at her, Prema. Look at what your innocent cousin really is.”
He used his free hand to grip Shilpa’s chin, forcing her tear-streaked face toward the doorway, toward her cousin. “Look at your didi, saali. Let her see you.”
Prema took a small, stumbling step backward. Her hand went to her stomach. The horror in her eyes was slowly being crowded out by a deeper, more terrifying emptiness. A numb, settling comprehension. She looked from Mohan’s calmly smoking face to Shilpa’s performative struggle, to their joined bodies under his dominant weight.
She saw the truth. Not of force, but of mutual, hungry betrayal. Her lips trembled. She closed her eyes for a long second.
When she opened them, the devastation was still there, but it was covered by a thin, sheer film of something else. Resignation. A horrific, quiet adjustment. She said nothing. She simply turned, her movements slow and heavy, and walked away, pulling the door closed softly behind her, leaving them to it.
Mohan took a final drag of his cigarette, his hips never stopping their rhythm. He looked down at Shilpa, whose struggling had ceased. She was watching him, her breath coming in quick pants, her eyes dark with triumph and a shared, vicious understanding.
He crushed the cigarette out on the nightstand, right beside the bed.