Chapter 13: The Warning from Pinki
Pinki’s bedroom smelled of jasmine incense and the lingering scent of their earlier coupling. Sunlight, filtered through cream-colored curtains, cut across the bed where Samarth lay, one arm draped over his eyes. Pinki’s fingers walked slowly down the ridge of his abdomen, over the hip bone, coming to rest on the heavy curve of his softening flesh.
“You’re tired,” she said, not as an accusation.A statement of fact.
He moved his arm.Her hair was down, a cascade of black over her shoulders, her silk robe open. She looked younger like this, away from the critical eyes of the society’s gossip chain. “Long morning,” he replied, his voice rough.
“I heard.” Her fingers began to trace lazy circles on his thigh. “The Nepali girl who works in B-4 saw you leaving the servant quarters at five-thirty. She told the cook, who told my driver.”
Samarth let out a slow breath.The web was tangible, a physical thing he could feel tightening around his neck. “She’s getting noticed,” he said, echoing Pinki’s own warning from days before.
“The belly or the walks of shame?”
“Both.”
Pinki shifted, rolling onto her side to face him, propping her head on her hand.Her expression was thoughtful, not angry. “You need a new pattern.Vary the times.Use the back gate near the generator sometimes. I’ll make sure the watchman is… distracted.” She smiled, a quick, conspiratorial flash. “But you can’t stop.She’s hooked.They all are. It’s what makes it work.”
“She bleeds a little.After.”
The smile vanished. Pinki sat up, the robe falling open completely.“Is she in pain?”
“No. The doctor said it can happen.”
“But it frightens her.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Pinki said it softly, almost to herself.“Fear makes her careful. Makes her silent.” Her hand found him again, stroking him slowly back to life.“You’re giving her a child, Samarth. A son, probably. You think her last husband, that old man in the photo, ever gave her that?You’re giving her a reason to exist in this place forever. That’s a gift. A messy, complicated, fucking beautiful gift.”
Her words were a balm and a burden. He grew hard in her hand, the response automatic, a Pavlovian reaction to her touch and her absolving logic.She saw it and her eyes darkened with possession.
She swung a leg over him, straddling his hips, her knees sinking into the mattress. She guided him into her with a practised, hungry sigh.She was already wet, always ready for him. She began to move, a slow, rolling grind that took him deep.
“This is what matters,” she whispered, leaning forward, her hair curtaining their faces.“This feeling.You providing it. We need it.I need it.” Her rhythm became more urgent, her nails biting into his chest. “Did Rashmi call you today?”
“Not yet.”
“She will. Her husband is in Dubai for two weeks.She’ll want you every night.” Pinki’s breath hitched. “I’ll schedule it.Make it work.Anju might need an afternoon. She’s fighting with her mother-in-law again.”
He held her hips, helping her move, watching the flush spread across her chest.It was surreal, this managerial aspect of their desire. Pinki, the bored housewife, had become the furious, dedicated CEO of his stamina.
“Promise me,” she gasped, her movements becoming frantic, losing their careful rhythm.“Promise me you won’t get sentimental. Don’t get scared.We have a system.It works.”
He didn’t promise. Instead, he flipped her suddenly onto her back, the surprise lighting up her face. He drove into her, hard, punching the air from her lungs in a soft ‘oof’. He pinned her wrists above her head. This was what she really wanted, beneath the planning and the orchestration—to be overwhelmed, to be taken out of her own managerial mind.“Yes,” she hissed, straining against his grip. “Like that. Don’t be careful with me.”
He fucked her with a focused intensity, a release for the low hum of anxiety Meena’s bleeding had sparked.This was clean. This was uncomplicated. Pinki’s climax was loud, theatrical, a series of sharp cries she made no attempt to muffle. It triggered his own, a hot, surrendering rush that left him breathless, collapsed on top of her.They lay tangled for a long time. The incense had burned down to ash.Finally, Pinki nudged him.“Go. I have a kitty party at one. Need to look fresh.”
As he dressed, she sat on the edge of the bed, retying her robe.“Send Meena to me tomorrow afternoon. I’ll give her some of my old maternity clothes.It will look like charity. It will explain my interest.” She winked.“And it will make her feel loyal to me. To us.”
Samarth paused at the door.The managerial engine was already turning again. “You think of everything.”
“I have to,” she said, her smile turning vague, looking past him at the sunlit window. “It’s the only thing that makes my life interesting anymore.”
He slipped out, closing the door softly on the image of her sitting alone in the rumpled, sun-drenched bed, already planning the next move on a chessboard only she could see.