A laugh bubbles out of me. Not amused. The‘I’m in danger and my body has chosen hysteria’kind of laugh.
“It was... okay knowing you, Ms. Gitika,” I say, deadpan.
She blinks, somehow still purring. “What?”
I check my watch, calculating casually. “I doubt you’ll be in one piece in... an hour? Maybe less?”
Her face blanches. “W-what?”
I smile—kind, sympathetic, almost gentle.
“Mywife,” I say simply. “Is going to kill you.”
??????
“You’re late.”
The second I step into the house, that voice—her voice—slices through the air.
There she is.
The love of my life.
Greesha Pathan-Sharma-My-Freaking-Wife.
Standing in our foyer with her arms crossed, a brow arched, and judgment radiating from her five-foot-six frame.
“Hey, baby,” I say, trying my most disarming smile, dropping my keys and bag onto the console like I’m not on the verge of a panic spiral.
I step forward to pull her into my arms.
Bad move.
She steps back and raises a hand—halt sign. Then sniffs. Her nose wrinkles in pure disgust.
“Who?”
Fuuuck.
Why is it so hot when she gets like this? Lethal. Clinical. Scary as hell.
But I need toexplainfirst. Lust later.
“Don’t get mad.” I raise both hands like I’m under arrest. “I was... with HR. Filing a formal complaint.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Against Gitika,” I clarify.
She gives me the look. That‘keep talking before I throat punch you—again’look.
So I launch into it. All of it. The delusion. The perfume. The tragicchest touch. The whole ass novella Gitika has apparently been writing in her head. And probably telling others at the office.
“She thought we were building something, baby. Like—‘us.’Can you believe that?”
I finish as we sit on the couch. She’s silent. Processing.
Then, slowly, she smirks. “She didn’t know you were married?”
