S*X IN SAREE |18+

—VEDANT—

I leaned back into the plush leather couch of the boutique.

The place reeked of privilege. Couture lehengas lined the walls like trophies, each with a price tag absurd enough to feed a city. The designer here? A legend. Celebrities wore her like a badge. And Simran—my fiancée—had been parading in outfit after outfit, as if each layer of fabric could fix what broke us.

"Vedant?" Her voice called out, soft and unsure.

She stepped out in a pastel lehenga, delicate embroidery cascading down. She spun around, that rehearsed little twirl, waiting for the applause.

"How do I look?" she asked, tilting her head.

I didn't answer.

I calmly put out the cigarette in the ashtray beside me. Then I stood up, slow and composed, and walked over to her. I brushed her hair behind her ears, the intimacy enough to make her eyes widen—hope blooming where it shouldn't.

"You're really excited about this wedding, aren't you?" I said, my voice low and unreadable. She gave a small nod.

I smirked. "So tell me, Simran—why did you leave me back then? Why come back now? What changed?"

She gave me a nervous little smile, eyes darting like a child caught in a lie. Then she lowered her head.

"You've changed. A lot," she said. "It's like—a whole glow-up."

I raised a brow. "How?"

"You've become sexier—colder. Dominant. Less annoying," she chuckled softly, fingertips ghosting over my jaw. "Back then, you were too needy. Too optimistic. Too available. Now—you're a daddy."

I tilted my head slightly. "Maybe that's because I stopped loving you."

Her expression faltered. Then she laughed—too loud, too quick. "Oh, stop playing," she said. "You've always loved me. You wouldn't have put this diamond ring on my finger if you didn't." She lifted her hand, flashing the ring, I gave her.

"Maybe," I said, my voice cold and unhurried, "that ring was a part of the plan. Did it ever cross your mind, Simran, that I never intended to marry you?"

I ran a hand through my hair, grabbed my coat from the couch, and turned toward the door.

Her brows furrowed, panic lacing her voice. "Vedant, what? Where are you going? What the hell do you mean?"

I stopped, then turned slightly over my shoulder.

"You said, during our divorce, that I was never enough for you. Remember that?" My voice dropped. "Maybe you were right. I'm calling off the wedding."

The color drained from her face. "No. No, no, no—you can't do that to me," she cried, running toward me. "Not ten days before the wedding. Vedant, tell me this is a sick joke!"

"No joke," I said flatly. "Just a taste of your own medicine."

She slapped me. Hard. The sound echoed in the room like a gunshot. Then her hands gripped my collar, trembling. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

"Vedant, how could you!?"

I slowly removed her hands from my shirt, one by one, and looked her in the eyes with a calm look.

"How could I?" I whispered, smiling like a storm beneath still water. "The same way you could. The same way you played with me—filed false abuse allegations, conspired with my senior to get me fired, destroyed my reputation."

Her tears were falling now, but they didn't move me.

"For years, I—and my parents—carried the shame of something I never did. Just because you were bored of me."

"Vedant, I was naive!" she sobbed, clutching her stomach like the truth physically hurt. "I didn't know what I was doing. I'm sorry."

I folded my arms. "Do you love me now—or do you love what I've become?"

"I love you," she whispered, as if saying it softer would make it more believable.

I stepped closer. "Would you still love me," I asked, "if I left it all behind? The company. The suits. The spotlight. If I chose a quiet life in the countryside, no riches, no power—just me? Would you come with me then?"

She blinked. Confused. Silent.

"—But why would you do that?" she asked, voice small.

And there it was—her truth, naked and pathetic.

I chuckled under my breath, shook my head. "You're greedy, Simran. You always have been. And maybe that's not a crime—but it's not love."

Her lips parted. No words came.

I looked her over one last time. Not with longing. Not with pain.

With closure.

"Take care of yourself," I said, sliding on my Aviators. "Let's never see each other again."

And I walked out, without looking back.

This had been my plan all along—to make Simran taste the bitterness of her own medicine.

But Sohini—I could never bring myself to hurt her. Somewhere along the path of revenge, I realized I cared for her too much to make her a casualty of my war.

I loved her—more than vengeance, more than pride.

And that's why I decided to leave. Leave everything behind.

To move to the US for good, expand my business and app globally, and build an empire that would make my late father proud. I owed that much to his memory—and to my mother, who had sacrificed her peace for the sake of her NGOs. It was time I gave back.

"Vedant, are you sure you want to leave India forever?" Mom's voice broke my chain of thoughts. She stood at the doorway, her eyes watching me pack the last of my clothes into the trolley. My flight was in a few hours.

"Yes," I replied calmly, zipping the suitcase. "There's nothing left for me here. I want to immerse myself in my work, fully."

She didn't say anything for a moment. Just stood there, her eyes glistening.

"Mom, come here," I said softly, pulling her into a hug. "You can always come see me. It's just a flight away."

She clung to me, then wiped her tears and smiled through them.

"Mom, don't try to stop me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "If I stay here, I'll lose myself. And I don't want to destroy anyone's life— especially not hers."

I had already destroyed enough.

"If it weren't for your NGOs, I'd have taken you with me," I added with a soft laugh.

She smiled. "Vedant, I'm not trying to stop you. I just want to see you happy and successful. But I'm your mother. I can't help but worry."

"I know, Mom. And thank you—for believing in me even when I didn't."

"You're my son. That's what mothers do," she said, cupping my face with trembling hands. Then her smile turned playful. "Now come downstairs. I made your favourites—shahi paneer and butter naan."

"Let's go," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Downstairs, the table was set like a feast. Mom served me with her own hands—as if she were feeding me for the last time. I didn't protest. I let her.

"You know Das ji's daughter got divorced?" she said casually, refilling my water glass.

I choked.

"Sohini?" I asked, startled. She nodded.

"You still love her, don't you?"

I didn't answer. Just looked away. How do you stop loving someone who's etched into your soul?

"You don't have to say anything," she said softly, reaching across the table to hold my hand. "I'm your mother. I know you do. And I never blamed her for your father's death, Vedant. She was just a girl—nineteen. Married to satisfy her parents, to serve a society that's never been kind to women. She was a victim too."

I nodded. "I don't blame her either. But—we weren't meant to be. She never loved me, Mom."

Mom tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something I couldn't name. "Are you sure about that?"

She stood and began clearing the dishes.

"What do you mean?" I asked, following her to the kitchen.

"She gave you everything when you had nothing to give in return. You were divorced. Tainted, they called you. And yet, she looked at you like you were her entire world."

I stared at her, heart pounding.

"But I've made my decision," I murmured to myself more than to her.

And yet—

As I drove to the airport, my hands turned the wheel—not toward the terminal, but toward her parents' home. I just wanted to see her one last time. Just once.

One final confession. I couldn't give up on her so easily.

I parked in front of the house. There she was—Sohini—sitting on the lawn, a book in her hands.

She looked up.

The book slipped from her fingers.

We just stared at each other across the barred fence, inches but lifetimes apart. She was no longer the married woman I remembered—no vermilion, no mangalsutra, no ring. She was glowing, but in a way that ached to look at.

"Vedant?" she whispered as she stepped closer. Her voice was breathless.

I stepped forward too, until only the fence separated us. I leaned in and kissed her on impulse—desperation more than romance.

But she pulled away. Disappointment clawed its way into my chest, but I stayed still.

"Sohini," I began, steadying my breath. "I came to confess one last time."

She narrowed her eyes. "Last time before your marriage to Simran?"

I smiled faintly. "I'm not marrying Simran. I called off the wedding."

Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

"I have a flight in two hours. I'm leaving India. Leaving—you. But I didn't want to walk away like you did."

She cut me off. "I didn't walk away. I came to your house the day we were moving. The maid told me you'd already left town. I tried, Vedant. I tried reaching you. My phone had been confiscated. I emailed you again and again before my wedding."

I was stunned.

"I got nothing back from you. I was nineteen, scared, trapped. My parents picked a groom, and I didn't have the strength to defy them."

My voice cracked. "Sohini—I had no idea. I wasn't ignoring you. That time—my father was in the ICU. He died days later. I spent every second in the hospital—running around for meds, tests, paperwork. I tried calling you too, but your number was out of service. I even called your father. He never answered."

Silence.

Then she looked at the house. Her father stood at the window, watching us. His disapproval still etched deep into his face.

"I'm sorry I ruined your marriage," I whispered. "I never meant to."

"You didn't," she said gently. "I walked out of it. It was my choice."

I reached out and took her hand. "Then choose me now, Sohini. I love you. I'll cherish you. I won't let you cry again."

She pulled back, wrapped her arms around herself, trembling.

"I'm pregnant," she said. "It's my ex-husband's"

The world stopped.

I didn't even flinch. "Then that child is mine now. I'll be the father. I'll raise them with love you never knew existed."

She let out a soft laugh, wiping away a tear. "You're insane. Naming another man's child as yours?"

"I am," I said, stepping closer. "Insane for you. I can't lose you again."

She didn't meet my eyes this time. "My parents raised me, educated me. Yes, they forced me into a marriage I didn't want. But they did it out of love—misguided, but love. If I hurt them now, even in the name of happiness—how can I live with that?"

I said nothing. What could I say?

"I'll fight society," she whispered, "but I can't break my parents' hearts. Not again. We aren't meant to be, Vedant. You deserve someone—untouched by scars like mine."

She stepped into my arms, hugged me like it was both goodbye and apology. Then whispered, "I wish you the happiest life, Vedant."

She pulled away.

I panicked. "Sohini, please. I'll talk to your father. I'll beg if I have to."

She turned back, eyes tired but kind. "He doesn't deserve your respect. But that's not the point. We—aren't the point."

She gave me a smile that looked like it had taken a lifetime to learn. Then she turned around and walked into her house.

And I knew—I had lost her.

Not because we didn't love each other, but because love sometimes wasn't enough.

I drove back to the airport in silence. The road stretched endlessly before me, the car engine humming. My thoughts were numb, looping around things I didn't want to think about anymore.

Then, out of nowhere, a figure darted in front of the car.

I slammed the brakes.

The tires screeched. The car jolted. I felt a thud—soft, but definite.

Heart hammering, I threw the door open and rushed out. A young woman lay on the road, her crimson lehenga splayed like a crushed rose. Heavy jewelry clinked faintly as she stirred, her breath rapid, her eyes wide and unblinking.

She looked like a runaway bride straight out of a movie—except this was painfully real.

"Miss, are you okay?" I crouched beside her, my voice sharper than I intended. I reached out instinctively, helping her sit up.

She grasped my hand tightly, knuckles white. "Please—please, help me."

Her grip was frantic. Her eyes held the kind of desperation that bypasses logic.

"Is someone following you?" I scanned the road. Empty. No headlights. Just us under the bleached halo of a distant streetlamp.

She shook her head, tears threatening to spill. "Take me to the station. Please—before it's too late."

The station was across from the airport. I had a flight to catch. A chance to leave behind everything that had crumbled. But something about her—the way her voice cracked, the way she looked like a bird mid-flight but with nowhere to land—I couldn't ignore it.

"Alright. Get in."

She didn't hesitate. She scrambled into the passenger seat, clutching her lehenga like a lifeline. I turned the car and hit the gas, pushing the speedometer to 100 km/h.

"I'm Shaya," she said, staring at her phone. Her voice trembled as she spoke her full name, "Shaya Samraya." Her eyes flicked between the screen and the window, her fingers shaking as she tried to dial a number. It went straight to voicemail. Again.

"Vedant," I offered quietly, my eyes on the road.

"Thank you, Vedant," she said softly, almost mechanically. "I'm sorry for this. I—I ran away from my wedding. I know it's stupid, but I couldn't do it. Not when I realized I love someone else. He's leaving for Mumbai today. I need to get to him before he boards the train. I just—I need to tell him."

I glanced at her. Her face was smeared with makeup and raw panic. A thousand thoughts clawed at me—but one hit hard.

Sohini.

Shaya reminded me of her—not in looks, but in what she was doing. What Sohini never could. Maybe if Sohini had run away. Maybe—

"You'll make it," I said, my voice firmer this time. "I'll get you there. Don't worry."

She turned and smiled at me, genuinely. "You're a good guy, Vedant."

I didn't answer. I just pressed harder on the accelerator.

Outside the station, she leaned over and hugged me—a quick, fierce squeeze. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick. "Really. Thank you."

She was about to get out when I stopped her briefly. "All the best, Shaya. I hope you get your happy ending."

She smiled, nodded, lifted her lehenga, and ran—like her whole life depended on those few seconds.

I watched her disappear into the station, then exhaled.

It was almost time for my flight. I checked the time. I was going to miss it. I knew that. But oddly, I didn't feel regret.

There's a strange satisfaction in helping someone find their fairytale ending.

Especially when you've already accepted that you won't get yours.