Scene One: The Warning
The storm hadn't started yet, but Claire felt it coming.
She wandered the halls of the Mehta estate, barefoot, wearing a soft cotton skirt that clung to her hips in the Mumbai heat. Her white blouse stuck to her back. Her husband, Aarav, had flown to Pune that morning -- a last-minute business trip. She hadn't protested. She rarely did anymore.
This house, his childhood home, still felt like a museum. All marble and shadow. Nothing like Manhattan.
And then, as she turned a corner near the east wing, she saw him.
Rajan Mehta.
Her father-in-law.
He was dressed in black slacks and a crisp grey shirt, sleeves rolled, collar undone, a tumbler of scotch in one hand. He looked like authority carved in stone -- the kind of man people didn't interrupt, didn't question.
His eyes raked over her, slow. Measured.
"You walk like you don't know who owns this house," he said.
Claire stopped, thrown by the tone. Not unkind. But sharp. Commanding.
She lifted her chin. "It's just a house."
He took a step closer. "No. It's a kingdom. And I'm still the king."
His gaze didn't waver. It lingered on the bare skin of her collarbone, the sway of her skirt. Then he walked past her, shoulder brushing hers.
But just before disappearing into the shadows, he added, "Next time you wear something that clings like that, don't act surprised when it draws attention."
Claire didn't move for a long time.
Scene Two: The Control Begins
The monsoon broke late that night. Rain drummed against the tall windows like a secret trying to get in. Claire sat curled on a leather armchair in the lounge, a book in her lap she wasn't reading.
The air was heavy with heat and anticipation.
She looked up when she heard the door open. Rajan entered -- silent, unhurried. Still in the same shirt, sleeves now rolled higher, the top two buttons undone, exposing the firm cut of a chest that hadn't softened with age.
She straightened instinctively.
He didn't greet her. Didn't ask to join her. Just walked to the bar, poured himself a drink, and stood by the window.
"You're up late," he said.
"So are you."
"I don't sleep much. Too many thoughts. Too many debts."
Claire watched him over the rim of her glass. "Is that how you run your empire? With thoughts and debts?"
Rajan turned, leaning against the frame. "You say that like you know what I run."
She shrugged, playing coy. "I don't. Aarav doesn't talk about it."
Rajan smiled -- the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That's because Aarav doesn't know."
Claire tilted her head. "And you want to keep it that way?"
"No," Rajan said, stepping closer. "I want you to understand something."
She stayed still as he approached. He didn't sit. Just stood over her, his presence sinking into the air like incense.
"You don't belong to Aarav. Not yet."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"You haven't taken his name. You don't wear a ring. You don't carry his child. You're still learning what it means to be a Mehta wife."
Claire laughed once -- dry, sharp. "And you're going to teach me?"
"I don't teach," Rajan said, eyes locked on hers. "I show. You follow."
The room went quiet. The only sound was rain and the crackle of fire.
Rajan reached forward -- not touching her, but tugging the edge of her blouse lightly between two fingers.
"Wear white tomorrow," he said. "No bra. Hair down."
Claire's breath caught.
His voice dropped lower. "If you want to live in my house, you follow my rules."
And then he walked out, leaving her stunned -- book forgotten, spine tingling, pulse racing.
Scene Three: The White Dress
The next morning, the rain had paused, but the air was thick with its memory.
Claire stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself.
The dress was white. Thin. Elegant. Expensive. It clung to her hips and barely concealed her nipples beneath the fabric. No bra. No slip. Her hair was loose, tumbling in waves down her back just as he had asked.
She wasn't sure why she was doing this. But she was doing it anyway.
Downstairs, Rajan was waiting by the car. Black again -- shirt, slacks, sunglasses. The driver stood stiff beside him, and a guard opened the door for Claire the moment she stepped out.
He didn't say a word as she slid into the car beside him. But she felt it -- the heat of his gaze. It soaked into her skin more thoroughly than the oils Lata had rubbed into her that morning.
They drove in silence -- through South Mumbai, down into the older parts of the city, where the streets narrowed and the air changed.
She realized very quickly this wasn't just a business tour.
This was a reveal.
They stopped first at a dockyard -- heavily secured, armed men nodding as Rajan passed. Then a warehouse stacked with locked crates, the air inside thick with gun oil and power. Claire kept her chin high, but her heart was hammering in her chest.
The men didn't hide their stares. They looked at her -- her body under the white dress, her curves outlined by every step she took.
Rajan didn't stop them.
At the last stop -- a mezzanine office above a shipping lot -- he finally spoke. His voice close behind her, low and deliberate.
"You feel their eyes on you."
"Yes," she breathed.
"They need to."
Her stomach turned.
"Why?"
"Because you're not his wife anymore."
She turned slowly, meeting his gaze. "Whose am I then?"
He stepped in, brushing her hair back from her shoulder, fingers grazing her throat.
"You're mine," he whispered. "And now they all know it."
Scene Four: The Illusion of Choice
The car ride back was quiet.
Not tense. Just charged.
Claire stared out the window, watching the monsoon-dark city pass in a blur. Her thighs stuck to the leather seat. The white dress clung even tighter now -- damp with heat and sweat and something deeper.
When they arrived at the estate, she walked ahead of Rajan, heels echoing down the marble hallway like defiance. She didn't stop until she reached the lounge again.
Then, she turned.
"I need to understand what this is," she said, voice taut.
Rajan didn't sit. He poured a drink, took a sip, and studied her.
"You're upset because I made them see."
"I'm not your trophy," Claire said. "You flaunted me like one."
"No," he said calmly. "I displayed you."
Her eyes widened. "That's not better."
"You think this is about lust?" he said, stepping closer. "You think I'm obsessed with your tits in white silk?"
He leaned in. "No, Claire. I'm obsessed with control. And right now, you're mine -- and everyone knows it but you."
Claire took a shaky step back. "I didn't ask for this."
"But you wore the dress."
"I was curious."
"No," Rajan said, his voice turning sharp. "You obeyed. And now that you feel how much it wakes something in you, you're afraid."
He circled her slowly, fingers grazing her waist. "You think this is dangerous. But you can't stop thinking about how it felt to walk beside me. Like you mattered. Like you belonged."
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard.
"You want to run?" he said. "Then run. But understand what happens when you do."
He stepped in front of her again.
"You think Aarav could survive knowing you've already moaned for me in silence? That his father's seen the way your thighs clench when I speak?"
Her hand came up -- reflexive.
But he caught her wrist.
Not violently.
