2. Fractures in Silence

“Guilt is not always loud. Sometimes, it whispers in the middle of the night, in the space between your heartbeat and breath.”

Kaira woke up before dawn.

The hotel room was soaked in the soft blue of early morning. The sheets tangled around her bare legs, the scent of whiskey, skin, and sex lingering in the air like the aftermath of a storm. Her pulse still thrummed in strange places.

He was still asleep beside her—calm, steady, utterly unbothered. His hand was loosely draped over her waist, his breath even.

She watched him for a long moment.

It should have felt wrong.

It should have felt filthy.

But it didn’t.

It felt like freedom.

And that, more than anything, made her feel ashamed.

Kaira sat up slowly, careful not to wake him. Her dress lay in a heap near the foot of the bed, and she gathered it silently. As she slipped into the bathroom, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Her lipstick had faded into a soft bruise across her lips. There were faint red marks along her neck and collarbone, places where his hunger had branded her.

She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face. It didn’t wash away the guilt.

She had crossed a line. There was no going back.

She returned home just after sunrise.

Their penthouse was still and dim, bathed in the orange glow of morning. Aviraaj hadn’t returned yet from Singapore. That was both a relief and a curse.

Her heels echoed against the marble floor as she moved through the silence. Their bedroom welcomed her like a graveyard—pristine, untouched. She sat at the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands.

She wanted to cry.

But her eyes were dry.

There were too many emotions warring inside her—shame, confusion, desire, sorrow. She hadn’t just betrayed Aviraaj. She had betrayed herself. The woman she thought she was—the woman who stayed composed, loyal, rational—had shattered in the arms of a stranger.

But was he truly a stranger?

No. He had felt like someone she had known in another life. Someone who had waited in the shadows of her heart for years.

She thought of his lips trailing down her spine, the way his voice had turned rough when he whispered, "You're mine tonight, and I don’t share."

Her body flushed at the memory. But her soul recoiled.

This couldn’t happen again.

It wouldn’t.

That evening, Aviraaj returned.

She heard the quiet click of the front door, followed by the soft thud of his suitcase. Kaira emerged from the kitchen with a glass of water in hand, her features composed like porcelain.

He smiled when he saw her. It was a tired smile, the kind that only those who carry empires in their hands manage to give.

“Kaira,” he said, walking toward her. “You look…”

He paused.

Something flickered in his eyes. Something like worry.

“…exhausted.”

She forced a smile. “You know academic events. More champagne than celebration.”

He studied her face. “And yet, your eyes say you didn’t sleep.”

She looked down at her glass. “Maybe I didn’t.”

He didn’t press. He never did.

Instead, he stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on her cheek, his thumb brushing along her jawline with a tenderness that both comforted and broke her.

“I missed you,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened. “I know.”

He leaned in to kiss her forehead. She let him. The contact was warm, familiar—but it wasn’t enough to dissolve the ache inside her chest.

“I brought something back for you,” he said, stepping away. “Something small. I saw it and thought of you.”

He opened his suitcase and pulled out a delicate box. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a silver bracelet inlaid with amethysts—her birthstone.

Kaira’s breath caught.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Like you.”

The weight of guilt settled deeper in her stomach.

She wanted to confess.

She wanted to fall at his feet and beg for forgiveness. To scream that she had ruined everything. That she had lost herself in a moment of weakness.

But instead, she said, “Thank you.”

And that was that.

The days that followed were quiet.

Kaira buried herself in work. She taught her classes with practiced ease, grading papers late into the night. She avoided the lounge, ignored the unknown number that texted her:

“Miss me?”

She deleted it without replying.

But her mind wandered. Her body remembered.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him—how his fingers had mapped her like a treasure, how he had looked at her like she was something dangerous and divine.

And worse?

She wanted to think about him.

Even in Aviraaj’s arms.

Even when her husband held her gently at night, asking about her day, brushing her hair away from her eyes with a lover’s care.

He loved her.

She knew that.

But love wasn’t always enough.

Sometimes, love was too soft. Too quiet.

And she—God help her—wanted to burn.

One night, as she stood on the balcony again, a voice spoke behind her.

“I’ve noticed something’s different about you lately.”

It was Aviraaj.

She didn’t turn. “Different how?”

He stepped closer, the night breeze catching the ends of his shirt.

“You’re quieter. Restless.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“I know you, Kaira.”

She turned now, facing him. His eyes were kind, but clouded with suspicion.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said gently. “You don’t have to pretend.”

She felt her walls begin to crack.

“I just…” Her voice faltered. “I feel… lost.”

His brow furrowed. “Is it me? Us?”

She shook her head too quickly. “No. It’s not you.”

But it was. Partly.

And partly, it was her.

The woman she had become.

The woman she didn’t recognize anymore.

He stepped forward, cupping her face again. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m here. I always will be.”

And for a second, she wished she could cry. That would at least prove she was still human.

Instead, she nodded. “Thank you.”

But that night, when Aviraaj kissed her, trying to deepen it, she froze.

He sensed it.

He pulled back, hurt flickering in his gaze.

“I’m tired,” she said quickly, turning away.

“Right,” he said quietly.

The silence between them stretched thin and sharp.

They slept back-to-back.

And in the dark, Kaira’s phone buzzed again.

This time, she didn’t delete the message.

She opened it.

“Still thinking about me, aren’t you?”

Her fingers hovered above the screen.

Yes.

She typed the word.

But didn’t hit send.

Not yet.

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