Scene Eighteen: The Mirror Breaks
The car hummed beneath her like a secret she didn't want to keep.
Claire sat motionless in the backseat, forehead against the tinted glass, watching Mumbai slide by in fractured reflections. The driver said nothing. The city was waking up -- rickshaws darting past, temple bells ringing faint in the smoggy distance -- but inside the car, the silence screamed.
Her thighs ached.
Not the way they had after late nights with Aarav -- lazy, wine-warm ache. No. This was something sharper. Deeper. Her body felt hollowed. Rented. Her nipples still pulsed from the clamps, her sex still swollen from being filled in ways she hadn't imagined. Her ass stung with each bump in the road, stretched too far, too fast. Her wrists bore faint marks from the cuffs.
And inside her?
Shame.
But not just shame.
Confusion. Power. Something darker than guilt and more dangerous than regret.
She had said yes. Not with her mouth, maybe, but with her body. With every moan. Every surrender. Every time she arched into Dhir's thrust and begged for more.
She'd played the game.
And won.
So why did she feel like she was unraveling?
Aarav.
The name hit her like salt in a wound.
What would she say when he came back? How could she explain... anything?
That she had become something he couldn't recognize?
Or worse -- something he might.
Her hand drifted to the silk scarf still tucked in her purse. Deep red. The same one she'd worn to Rajan's bed. The same one Lata had tied around her neck like a collar.
She should've thrown it away.
She hadn't.
The car slowed.
Claire looked up.
And froze.
Aarav's car was parked at the edge of the compound drive -- sleek, black, familiar. Still beading from the morning mist.
She didn't move.
Not at first.
Then the guard approached.
He didn't speak until the driver opened her door.
"You are summoned," he said. His tone was unreadable. "In the library."
The marble under her heels felt colder than usual as she stepped out.
The air was heavier.
The house -- too quiet.
She walked.
Slowly.
Each step felt like trespassing.
Each corridor she passed felt like it might collapse behind her, brick by brick, until she had no home left at all.
The door to the library stood open.
Inside, the lights were low. The room pulsed with silence.
Claire stepped through.
And the world ended.
Aarav was seated in the leather chair he used to read poetry from, one hand gripping the armrest like it was the only thing holding him to the earth. His face had no color. His eyes -- hollow.
The flat-screen in front of him played a muted video.
Claire's body.
Her cries.
Her surrender.
Dhir's hands gripping her hips, his cock slamming into her from behind.
Her moans like worship.
Her begging like addiction.
On the table: photos.
All of her.
Stripper heels. Smudged lipstick. Cheap stage lights catching on sweaty skin. Her legs around strangers. A bill tucked into her G-string. A shot glass balanced on her ass.
Her past.
Her present.
Everything.
Aarav didn't look at her.
She stepped forward, barely breathing.
"Aarav--"
He spoke without turning.
His voice wasn't angry.
It was empty.
"Is it true?"
She didn't answer.
"Was any of it real?" he whispered.
Behind him, near the shelves, Rajan stood. Dressed in slate-gray. Unflinching. A drink in his hand.
Claire's knees wobbled.
She wanted to speak. To run. To explain something she didn't even understand herself.
But the screen kept playing.
And her voice?
Was gone.
Scene Nineteen: The Son's Fury
Claire didn't breathe.
She couldn't.
The room was too still. Too cold. The kind of cold that didn't come from temperature but truth.
Aarav stood in front of her, hands clenched, chest rising and falling like a man struggling not to tear himself in half.
Behind her, the television kept playing--mute, merciless.
Claire's own voice echoed in her skull.
Please... more... don't stop...
Her knees weakened.
She took a step forward. "Aarav--"
His voice lashed like a whip. "Don't."
She froze.
His eyes were glass. Red-rimmed. Wild. He looked at her the way you look at a stranger after a car crash. Like you knew them once. Maybe.
And now something was bleeding between you.
"I loved you," he said, low, like it hurt to speak.
Claire opened her mouth.
He raised his voice. "No. I fucking loved you."
The words shattered something between them.
"You said you were different," he snapped, stepping toward her. "You said you were building something with me. A future. A life."
Claire's breath hitched. "I was."
"No. You were performing."
His hand moved to his belt.
Claire's heart dropped.
"You let that pig touch you?" he seethed. "You spread your legs and let him own you--"
The leather belt slipped through his fingers like a snake uncoiling.
Claire backed up instinctively--but there was nowhere to go.
Aarav closed the distance, grabbing her by the jaw with a force she'd never seen from him. His eyes were glass, bloodshot and crazed.
"You lied to me," he said. "Smiled while you let another man break you."
Claire tried to speak.
He slapped her.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
Not enough to knock her down.
Just enough to tell her it was over.
The illusion. The marriage. The safety.
He pulled the belt taut between his hands. "Turn around."
The whips were fast, unexpected, quick and hard. Claire was in pain but the tears were more from remorse. Aarav yanked her thong and continued to whip until the alligator leather pattern war engraved on her butt cheeks.
He pulled her by her hair and turned her to face him. Another slap from the back of his hand. "Get on your knees."
She didn't move.
He shoved her.
Claire dropped.
Marble floor. Cold. Unforgiving.
His zipper came down with a hiss.
"Open your mouth," he said.
She stared up at him, lips trembling.
"Do it."
