The Bride Who Swallowed the Lake

PART 3 — THE LIFE MARIYA LEFT BEHIND
Chapter 24 — Returning to the Fernandez House

Three days passed before Mathew contacted Johnson.
Three quiet days.
Not peaceful.
Quiet in the way churches feel after funerals.
Rachel watched me too carefully during meals. Johnson pretended not to notice the tension settling through the apartment. I spent longer avoiding mirrors than I did looking into them.
I told myself the gala meant nothing.
One conversation.
A few glances.
Nothing more.
Then Johnson received the call during breakfast.
I knew from his expression before he spoke.
Rachel knew too.
“What?” I asked.
Johnson lowered the phone slowly.
“Mathew wants to thank us personally for attending the fundraiser.”
Rachel gave a quiet scoff.
“Of course he does.”
“He invited all three of us for dinner tomorrow.”
“No,” Rachel said immediately.
Johnson ignored her.
“He specifically asked whether Sophia would come.”
Silence settled over the kitchen.
Rain tapped softly against the balcony grills while untouched tea cooled between us.
I stared down at the table.
And hated the small pulse moving through my stomach.
Fear, yes.
But curiosity too.
That was the part that frightened me.
________________________________________
The dinner never happened.
Johnson canceled at the last moment, citing donor meetings and church obligations.
Another strategy.
Delay.
Distance.
Control.
Instead, Mathew arrived unexpectedly near the end of a charity coordination meeting the following evening.
Smaller gathering.
Fewer people.
No ballroom distance to protect anyone.
I stood near the parish office hallway organizing documents with Rachel when he walked in carrying rainwater across his shoulders.
The sight of him still affected me physically.
Memory.
Rachel stiffened beside me.
Mathew greeted Johnson first, spoke briefly with two parish volunteers, then looked toward me with the same unnerving focus from the gala.
“Sophia.”
Just my name.
But spoken carefully.
“Hello.”
The parish office emptied gradually after that. Volunteers drifted out into heavy evening rain while priests disappeared into adjoining rooms. Johnson vanished conveniently into a meeting nearby. Rachel became trapped speaking with committee women near the entrance.
And suddenly Mathew stood beside me alone near the corridor windows.
Rain hammered the church courtyard outside hard enough to blur the lights.
For several moments neither of us spoke.
I became aware of everything.
The smell of damp wood.
Water running through broken gutters.
My own breathing.
Mathew leaned lightly against the window frame.
“You seem nervous around me.”
The directness caught me off guard.
I lowered my eyes automatically.
“I’m nervous around most people.”
“That isn’t true.”
I looked up slightly.
“You observe people too calmly for that.”
Dangerous man.
He noticed too much.
I forced a small smile.
“You’ve known me for one evening.”
“Sometimes one evening is enough.”
The sentence lingered between us.
Mathew loosened his tie slightly afterward, and for the first time since entering, he looked tired instead of polished.
A small crack in the performance.
“You don’t enjoy these church gatherings much either, do you?” he asked.
“I’m still learning how to behave in them.”
“You behave perfectly.”
Something in his voice sounded almost weary.
A volunteer crossed the hallway carrying files, nodded politely toward us, then disappeared downstairs.
Silence returned.
Mathew stared out toward the rain for several seconds before speaking again.
“I used to hate crowds.”
Used to.
Power had apparently cured that weakness.
“What changed?” I asked softly.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“People stop frightening you once you disappoint yourself enough.”
The answer unsettled me.
Because it sounded honest.
“And you don’t?” I asked quietly.
His smile returned briefly.
“I perform certainty professionally.”
Then the smile disappeared almost immediately.
As if he regretted revealing even that much.
I noticed something then.
Mathew controlled conversations the way other men controlled rooms.
Carefully.
Precisely.
Every truth arrived measured.
Every silence intentional.
Rain rolled down the church windows in silver streaks.
I watched him carefully.
That seemed to amuse him slightly.
“You study people,” he said.
“So do you.”
“I have to.”
“No,” I said softly before thinking. “You want to.”
For the first time, he looked genuinely surprised.
The expression vanished quickly.
But not before I saw it.
Talking to Sophia altered something in him.
The constant political vigilance loosened slightly around her.
Not because he trusted her.
Because she made exhaustion feel briefly survivable.
That realization unsettled me immediately.
I mostly listened afterward.
That became our rhythm faster than I expected.
Around Sophia, Mathew spoke more freely than he intended to.
Not boastfully.
Not carelessly.
Relieved.
As though her silence offered something rare.
He discussed politics vaguely.
Church frustrations vaguely.
Public expectations vaguely.
Never enough to expose himself.
But enough to reveal exhaustion beneath control.
“You know the worst part of public life?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
“Everyone performs certainty all the time.”
Rain rolled down the church windows in silver streaks.
“And you don’t?”
“I perform it professionally.”
That almost made me laugh.
Instead I tucked loose hair behind my ear unconsciously.
Mariya used to do that.
I realized too late.
Mathew’s expression shifted immediately.
Every resemblance wounded him.
Or haunted him.
The hallway suddenly felt smaller.
Too intimate.
I changed the subject quickly.
“You work too much.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“She’s probably correct.”
“That’s disappointing.”
For the first time since meeting him, Mathew laughed softly.
Real laughter.
Brief.
Unexpected.
The sound disturbed me more than anger would have.
Because monsters were easier to survive when they stayed monstrous.
________________________________________
By the time the meeting finally ended, rain had worsened.
Floodwater covered half the church courtyard. Volunteers rushed toward their vehicles beneath umbrellas while thunder rolled somewhere beyond the cathedral district.
Rachel approached immediately.
“We should leave.”
Mathew nodded politely.
“Of course.”
But before we reached the entrance, the lights flickered once.
Then died.
The entire parish office dropped into darkness.
A few women near the staircase gasped softly.
Someone downstairs cursed about transformers flooding again.
Emergency backup lights came on several seconds later, dim and amber against the corridor walls.
Everything looked softer beneath them.
Older.
The rain outside sounded louder now.
Rachel muttered under her breath.
“Perfect.”
Johnson called from another room saying he needed several more minutes.
Of course he did.
Rachel reluctantly went downstairs to help settle the remaining volunteers near the entrance hall.
And once again, I found myself alone with Mathew.
The backup lighting changed his face strangely.
Less political.
More human.
That frightened me too.
“You don’t trust me,” he said quietly.
Not accusing.
Observing.
I folded the files in my arms tighter.
“I barely know you.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
I looked toward the rain instead of answering.
The church bells rang faintly somewhere through the storm.
Mathew studied me for a moment.
“Most people trust me immediately.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“No.”
A strange expression crossed his face then.
Not irritation.
Interest.
“And why is that?”
Because every instinct inside me still recoiled from him.
Because my body remembered danger faster than thought.
Because somewhere beneath Sophia’s skin, Lucky still wanted to run.
Instead I said:
“You seem careful.”
Mathew tilted his head slightly.
Studying me.
Not flirtation.
Assessment.
For one horrifying second, I became certain he recognized something beneath the face.
Not Lucky.
Something smaller.
A rhythm.
A familiarity his mind could not fully place.
My pulse stumbled hard enough that I worried he might actually see it happen.
“That’s true,” he said finally.
His voice had softened.
“Careful people make you nervous?”
“Careful people usually want something.”
“And what do you think I want?”
The question arrived too softly.
Dangerously softly.
I met his eyes for the first time since the lights failed.
And saw it clearly then.
Recognition.
Not conscious.
Not complete.
But something inside him already leaned toward me instinctively.
Toward memory.
Toward grief.
Toward something unfinished.
“I don’t know yet,” I answered.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Rainwater slid slowly down the windows behind us.
Then Mathew stepped closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough that I could smell rain and expensive cologne beneath the damp air.
“You know what’s strange?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
“I feel calmer around you.”
The sentence hit harder than flirtation would have.
Because it sounded involuntary.
“I don’t know why.”
My chest tightened painfully.
The hallway downstairs grew louder as generators restarted somewhere outside. Voices echoed upward through the stairwell.
Reality returning.
Mathew stepped back first.
The distance felt immediate.
Intentional.
“I should help Johnson before the parish accountant has a nervous breakdown,” he said lightly.
I nodded.
But before turning away, he paused.
“Sophia.”
“Yes?”
“You listen very carefully.”
The compliment felt wrong somehow.
“Most people only wait for their turn to speak.”
Then he smiled faintly.
“And you notice too much.”
He walked downstairs before I could answer.
I remained beside the corridor windows listening to the rain.
Rachel returned moments later carrying her shawl tightly around herself.
Her eyes moved immediately toward the staircase where Mathew disappeared.
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing important.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I stayed quiet.
Rachel watched me for several long seconds.
Then very softly:
“You looked different just now.”
A chill moved through me.
“How?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned slightly. “Closer to him somehow.”
The words settled badly inside my chest.
Because she was right.
The conversation had changed something.
Before tonight, Mathew observed Sophia with curiosity.
Now he was beginning to need her.
The apartment door clicked shut, sealing them inside their private world. Rachel immediately pulled Sophia into a deep, victorious kiss, their bodies pressing together with shared excitement.

“We have him,” Rachel whispered triumphantly against her lips. “He’s completely hooked.”

They celebrated with generous glasses of Old Monk rum. The rich, spiced aroma filled the room as they toasted on the couch, still dressed in their gala sarees. The alcohol went down warm and smooth,loosening their inhibitions with every sip.

By the fourth glass,
Rachel’s eyes sparkled with mischief. She leaned in close, her lips brushing Sophia’s ear as she whispered softly, “Call him… just let him hear how sweet you sound right now.”
Sophia hesitated for only a moment before the rum won. She dialed. Mathew answered on the second ring.
“Sophia?” His voice came through warm and slightly surprised. “Is everything alright?”
Sophia let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Mathew… hi. I was just sitting here thinking about the gala… and you.”
Rachel smiled and gently stroked Sophia’s arm, whispering barely audible encouragement, “Tell him the rum made you nostalgic.”
“I might have had a little too much rum tonight,” Sophia continued, her voice warm and slightly husky. “It made me brave enough to call you.”
Mathew chuckled softly, clearly charmed. “You sound different tonight. Relaxed. I like it.”
Rachel leaned in again, her breath warm against Sophia’s ear, and whispered, “Say you enjoyed talking to him earlier.”
“I really enjoyed our conversation earlier,” Sophia said, playing with the edge of her pallu. “Your voice is… comforting.”
There was a short, pleased pause on the other end. Mathew’s tone grew gentler. “You’re very sweet when you’ve been drinking. It’s unexpectedly cute.”
Rachel gave Sophia’s thigh a light, approving squeeze and whispered, “Stay quiet for a second… let him fill the silence.”
Sophia stayed silent, smiling drunkenly. After a moment, Mathew spoke again, his voice warm with interest.
“I’d really like to see you again soon. Properly. Just the two of us.” He paused, then added with quiet hope, “Would you let me take you out on a date this Friday? Around seven?”
Sophia’s heart skipped. She glanced at Rachel, who gave her an encouraging nod.
“I’d like that,” Sophia replied softly, her voice carrying a tipsy sweetness. “Friday at seven sounds perfect.”
Mathew’s smile was audible through the phone. “I’ll pick you up. I’m already looking forward to it.”

The moment she hung up, Rachel pounced on her with a triumphant laugh.

Rachel’s fingers were tracing slow, teasing patterns along Sophia’s collarbone, her touch leaving trails of goosebumps. “Tell me something real tonight,” she murmured.

Sophia took another sip, the rum making her words flow more freely. “I used to hate mirrors,” she confessed softly. “Now… when you touch me, I don’t flinch anymore. This body finally feels like mine when your hands are on it.”

Rachel smiled, her palm sliding down to cup Sophia’s full breast through the thin blouse. The soft, heavy weight filled her hand perfectly, warm and yielding. “I love these,” she whispered, squeezing gently, feeling the plush flesh spill between her fingers. “So soft and full… the way they move when you breathe, how perfectly they fit in my hands.”

Emboldened by the rum, Sophia reached out, sliding her hands under Rachel’s top. She cupped Rachel’s breasts, thumbs brushing over the stiffening nipples. “I love how warm and soft you feel here,” she murmured, voice thick with desire. “The way your nipples get so hard for me… and your thighs — so smooth and strong when they wrap around me.”

Their confessions grew bolder and more intimate as the bottle emptied. Hands roamed freely, skin sliding warmly against skin, laughter mixing with soft, breathy gasps.

Rachel pulled Sophia into a slow, deep kiss. Their tongues moved together lazily, tasting the sweet spice of rum. Clothes were shed sensually — the heavy saree pleats unraveled with soft whispers of silk, blouses slipped from shoulders, until they were both completely naked, skin flushed and glowing in the lamplight.

She pulled Sophia into her arms, their completely naked bodies pressing flush together — breasts molding warmly and heavily against each other, hardened nipples brushing with delicious friction, legs intimately tangled, skin sticky with sweat and arousal. Rachel’s hand stroked slowly down Sophia’s back, fingertips tracing every curve of her spine and waist.
Both were too drunk to continue, They fell asleep wrapped tightly in each other’s arms — Rachel’s leg thrown possessively over Sophia’s hip, faces buried in each other’s necks, breathing slow and synchronized as the rain fell softly outside.

---

**The Morning After**

Sophia woke to bright sunlight and a pounding headache. Her body felt sore, and thoroughly loved. Rachel was still asleep beside her, gloriously naked, one full breast pressed warmly against Sophia’s arm, their legs tangled together.

Sophia reached for her phone. Mathew’s message waited on the screen:

*“Last night’s call made me smile for hours. Looking forward to our date this Friday at 7. I’ll take you somewhere special. Can’t stop thinking about your sweet voice.”*

“Oh no…” Sophia whispered, sitting up. The sheet slipped down, exposing her bare breasts.

Rachel stirred, smiling sleepily as she pulled Sophia back down into their warm, naked embrace. “Morning, my drunken daredevil.”

“I accepted a date,” Sophia groaned, hiding her face against Rachel’s shoulder. “I was so drunk… I didn’t even think twice.”

Rachel chuckled softly and kissed her bare collarbone, lips warm and lingering. “It’s perfect. He’s falling faster than we planned.”

Sophia stared at the ceiling, heart racing with a chaotic mix of guilt, lingering pleasure from the night before, and uneasy anticipation. The alcohol had stripped away her usual caution, and now the lines between revenge and reality were blurring dangerously.

------------------------------

Chapter 25 — Wearing Mariya’s Sarees

The first time Mathew took Sophia out publicly, he chose the backwaters.
For it’s privacy disguised as scenery.
Rachel chose the saree like she was preparing someone for battle.
Not seductive.
That would have made him cautious.
Not innocent either.
Mathew trusted softness more than glamour.
So she picked deep blue silk with a silver border that only caught light when Sophia moved. Traditional enough for church families. Elegant enough for political crowds. The blouse fit closely through the waist and sleeves, making Sophia painfully aware of her own body every time she breathed too deeply.
Rachel stood behind her adjusting pleats.
“You can’t look rehearsed,” she said. “Men like Mathew notice performance immediately.”
Sophia watched her reflection nervously.
Rachel lowered the saree slightly along Sophia’s waist.
“There.”
Sophia swallowed.
“This feels dangerous.”
“It is.”
Rachel pinned the pallu into place carefully.
Sophia’s hair had grown long enough now to soften naturally around her face. Rachel curled only the ends before brushing everything over one shoulder with deliberate casualness.
“Too much?” Sophia asked.
Rachel looked at her through the mirror.
“No,” she said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
The makeup remained restrained.
Soft eyeliner.
Muted lipstick.
Almost nothing else.
Mathew noticed restraint.
Sophia hated how naturally her body cooperated now with rituals that once felt humiliating. She tilted her chin automatically while Rachel applied lipstick. Stayed still while earrings were fastened. Smoothed the saree unconsciously afterward.
Rachel noticed every bit of it.
“You stopped fighting femininity months ago,” she murmured.
“No I didn’t.”
“You checked your lipstick three times.”
“That’s anxiety.”
Rachel laughed softly.
“Sure.”
Rain tapped gently against the balcony railing.
For several moments neither of them spoke.
Then Rachel’s expression shifted.
More serious now.
“Remember the plan.”
Sophia nodded once.
“Keep him talking.”
“Keep him comfortable,” Rachel corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Sophia stared at herself.
“And if he actually loves her?”
Rachel went still.
The room suddenly felt colder.
“That doesn’t erase Mariya.”
No.
It didn’t.
Rachel stepped closer again, fastening a thin silver chain around Sophia’s neck.
“He wants someone who makes him feel human,” she said softly. “That’s why he’s dangerous.”
Sophia’s voice dropped lower.
“And if I start feeling human too?”
Rachel’s fingers paused briefly against her shoulder.
Something complicated crossed her face.
Fear.
Exhaustion.
Maybe jealousy.
“That,” she said carefully, “is what scares me.”
Silence settled heavily afterward.
Then Rachel inhaled and forced lightness back into her voice.
“Also, if you cry tonight, I’m abandoning you in the middle of the river.”
Sophia laughed weakly.
“You’re horrible.”
“I’m practical.”
Rachel picked up the jasmine perfume and sprayed it lightly against Sophia’s throat and wrists.
Warm floral scent settled immediately into silk and skin.
Feminine.
Intimate.
Dangerous.
Sophia looked at herself one last time.
Blue silk.
Softened face.
Nervous eyes.
Rachel stood beside her quietly.
Then softly:
“Don’t let him see Lucky tonight.”
Sophia looked at the woman in the mirror.
This time, she wasn’t sure she could.
________________________________________
The boat waited beside a narrow wooden jetty beyond the city.
Morning mist drifted low across the water while fishermen moved through rain haze like shadows cut from smoke. Church hymns echoed faintly somewhere across the canals through old loudspeakers distorted by humidity.
Sophia almost refused immediately.
Too isolated.
Too intimate.
Then Mathew looked up from the dock.
Rolled sleeves.
Dark glasses.
Rainwater across his shoulders.
And unexpectedly—
uncertain.
Like her answer actually mattered.
“You hate this already,” he said.
“I don’t like boats.”
“That’s a lie.”
“How would you know?”
“You looked at the water before the boat.”
Sophia frowned slightly.
Mathew smiled.
“Come here,” he said, offering his hand while she stepped onto the wet wood.
Sophia hesitated only a second before taking it.
Big mistake.
His hand closed firmly around hers while the boat shifted beneath her feet. The movement threw her briefly off balance and suddenly his other hand steadied her waist automatically through silk.
Warm fingers.
Bare skin beneath the saree edge.
The touch lasted maybe two seconds.
Her pulse reacted like violence.
Mathew let go immediately.
But not before noticing.
Dangerous men noticed everything.
The boat moved slowly through narrow canals lined with coconut trees dripping rainwater into dark green water below. Moss-covered walls passed beside them while white egrets lifted lazily from reeds whenever the engine disturbed them.
Sophia sat opposite him initially.
Careful distance.
Careful posture.
Wind kept loosening strands of hair across her face. Twice she reached automatically to fix her pallu before realizing Mathew was watching her.
Not lustfully.
Attentively.
Like he enjoyed observing things other people overlooked.
“You relax near water,” he said eventually.
“I grew up around it.”
“Kottayam?”
“Yes.”
The lie arrived too easily now.
Mathew leaned back slightly.
“You never speak much about yourself.”
Good.
Instead Sophia asked:
“Why politics?”
He laughed softly.
“That question sounds disappointed already.”
“It sounds exhausting.”
“That’s because you’re intelligent.”
Most men simplified Sophia immediately.
Pretty woman.
Soft voice.
Harmless.
Mathew studied her instead.
That made him harder to survive.
Conversation deepened slowly as the boat drifted farther into the canals.
He spoke about church pressure.
Family expectations.
Public performance.
Never dramatically.
Never enough to fully trust.
But enough to suggest loneliness beneath control.
Sophia recognized the pattern gradually.
Mathew relaxed around her.
His shoulders loosened.
Silences stopped feeling calculated.
He watched the water instead of constantly watching rooms.
And increasingly, he watched her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.
“You’re calming to talk to,” he admitted eventually.
Sophia looked away toward the river.
“That sounds boring.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It sounds rare.”
The answer lingered.
________________________________________
Church feast season arrived weeks later and pulled them publicly together more often than Rachel liked.
Parish grounds glowed beneath strings of colored lights while devotional songs blasted through giant speakers distorted by humidity. Children ran between food stalls carrying balloons and melting ice cream while old women watched everything from folding chairs near the church entrance.
Especially relationships.
Especially women.
Mathew arrived late one evening wearing a simple white mundu and shirt instead of political tailoring.
The sight startled Sophia briefly.
Less polished.
More dangerous somehow.
Women noticed him immediately.
Men surrounded him immediately.
Yet somehow his eyes still found Sophia first.
Rachel noticed too.
“He looks for you before anyone else,” she muttered while adjusting Sophia’s bangles near the food stalls.
Before Sophia could answer, Mathew approached already smiling slightly.
“There you are.”
Such a simple sentence.
But familiarity lived inside it now.
The evening blurred afterward into parish gossip and introductions from church families who had already decided what they were becoming.
“You both look beautiful together,” one auntie announced loudly.
Sophia nearly inhaled tea.
Mathew laughed beside her.
Didn’t deny it.
That silence mattered.
________________________________________
Political dinners followed.
Those Sophia hated more.
Too many powerful men performing certainty at expensive tables.
But Mathew increasingly insisted on her presence beside him.
Not ornamental.
Necessary.
Sophia noticed the pattern slowly.
He stopped interrupting people when she touched his wrist lightly beneath tables.
Started glancing toward her before answering difficult questions.
Drank less when she was beside him.
One donor dinner turned ugly midway through dessert when a businessman challenged Mathew openly about campaign funding.
Voices sharpened.
Glasses stopped moving.
Sophia felt the shift immediately.
Mathew’s jaw tightened once.
Then she touched his wrist gently beneath the tablecloth.
Tiny pressure.
Nothing more.
His shoulders loosened almost instantly.
The conversation cooled within minutes.
Rachel watched the entire exchange from across the table.
Later, driving home through heavy rain, she spoke quietly.
“You know exactly what you’re doing now.”
Sophia looked out the window.
“No.”
“You calm him deliberately.”
Rain blurred red taillights outside.
Sophia stayed silent.
Rachel removed her earrings slowly while staring ahead.
“He listens to you differently,” she murmured.
That frightened Sophia because it was true.
________________________________________
The dangerous part was how genuine some of it became.
Boat rides.
Late-night calls.
Rain-soaked drives through sleeping streets.
Mathew listened carefully when Sophia spoke.
Remembered details.
Noticed moods.
Lucky had spent most of his life around men who understood only dominance.
This felt different.
One evening after a fundraiser, Mathew drove through heavy rain without speaking for nearly fifteen minutes.
The city glowed wet and gold beyond the windshield.
Finally he asked quietly:
“Do you ever feel like you become different people depending on who needs you?”
The question landed too close.
Sophia kept her breathing steady.
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember who I am without work anymore.”
His voice sounded tired.
Not performative.
Just exhausted.
Sophia studied him carefully then.
Expensive watch.
Controlled posture.
Fatigue hidden beneath discipline.
Monster.
But also man.
That complexity poisoned revenge slowly.
Sara’s name appeared more often afterward.
Always carefully.
“Sara would probably adore you.”
Another evening:
“She still hates mathematics.”
Sophia listened quietly while he spoke about school meetings and church performances and loneliness after Mariya’s death.
Every detail tightened something painful inside her chest.
Because Sara still existed somewhere carrying Mariya’s eyes.
And Sophia still wasn’t ready to face her.
One rainy night after another fundraiser, Mathew parked outside the apartment but kept the engine running.
Rain hammered softly across the windshield.
Something visibly weighed on him.
“What?” Sophia asked quietly.
He stared ahead.
“You ever wonder whether people stay close to you because they want something?”
The vulnerability startled her.
“All the time.”
Mathew laughed softly.
“That answer should concern me.”
“But it doesn’t.”
“No.”
Rain slid heavily across the glass between them.
Then Mathew looked toward her fully.
“I don’t feel alone around you.”
The sentence hit harder than it should have.
Because judgment still lived inside Sophia constantly around him.
Only hidden.
She lowered her eyes briefly.
“You don’t know me well enough yet.”
“I think I do.”
Dangerous answer.
Very dangerous.
When Sophia entered the apartment afterward, Rachel understood immediately.
“You’re getting attached.”
“No.”
“You smiled before opening the door.”
Sophia froze.
Because she hadn’t realized.
Rachel busied herself removing her earrings after saying it.
She didn’t look at Sophia again.
Later that night Sophia stood before the mirror removing jewelry piece by piece.
The woman staring back looked effortless now inside femininity.
Composed.
Desired.
Natural.
Sophia no longer felt assembled each morning.
She simply existed.
And increasingly—
people loved her for it.
Mathew especially.
Sophia touched her own reflection lightly.
Then stopped at a realization sharp enough to hollow her out.
Sometimes during conversations with him—
she forgot to hate him.
Only for moments.
But long enough to terrify her.
Because revenge depended on memory.
And somewhere between rain-soaked drives, church feasts, political dinners, and long conversations beside dark water—
Lucky had started fading at the edges.

------------------------------

Chapter 26 — Sundays at St. Sebastian’s Church

Sophia met Sara properly on a rain-heavy Sunday afternoon.
Not through introductions.
Not through ceremony.
Just suddenly.
Mathew invited her to lunch after church at his family home outside the city — a sprawling Syrian Christian house hidden behind jackfruit trees and moss-dark stone pathways slick with monsoon rain.
Sophia nearly cancelled twice that morning.
Rachel noticed immediately.
“You’re scared.”
“I’m cautious.”
“You ironed the same saree three times.”
Sophia looked down.
The pale cotton saree still lay across the bed beneath her hands.
Rachel’s expression softened slightly.
“You can still say no.”
Sophia could have.
But Sara existed at the center of all of this whether she wanted her there or not.
And some part of her needed to see Mariya’s daughter with her own eyes.
________________________________________
The house smelled like old wood, incense, and polished furniture.
Family photographs lined the corridors.
Rain whispered softly through open courtyard spaces.
Women from the kitchen greeted Sophia warmly while Mathew guided her inside with practiced ease.
“You’ve become popular here already,” she muttered quietly.
“My mother likes you.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“She dislikes almost everyone.”
A smile nearly escaped Sophia.
Nearly.
Lunch unfolded beneath careful conversation.
Church politics.
Relatives.
Donors.
Sophia barely heard any of it.
Her attention kept returning to the photographs.
Mariya holding Sara as a baby.
Mariya beside church decorations.
Mariya laughing beside Mathew during happier years.
The pain wasn’t seeing her dead.
It was seeing her alive.
Then a small voice appeared near the dining room doorway.
“Appa?”
Everything inside Sophia stopped.
Sara stood there holding a notebook against her chest.
Seven years old now.
Thin shoulders.
Large eyes.
Mariya’s eyes.
The resemblance struck with physical force.
Mathew looked up immediately.
“There’s my girl.”
His entire face softened.
Sara noticed Sophia then and slowed slightly, half hiding herself behind the doorway.
Children never pretend not to stare.
“This is Sophia aunty.”
Aunty.
Something twisted painfully inside Sophia’s chest.
She smiled carefully.
“Hello.”
Sara nodded once before moving closer to Mathew, still studying Sophia openly.
“She has homework,” Mathew said with exhausted affection. “Apparently the world is ending.”
“It’s division,” Sara muttered.
He sighed dramatically.
“See? Worse.”
A laugh escaped Sophia before she could stop it.
Sara looked at her again.
Something shifted slightly in the child’s expression.
________________________________________
Later Sophia found Sara sitting beside a rain-streaked window with her notebook spread across her lap looking personally betrayed by mathematics.
Sophia sat beside her.
“You seem angry.”
“It’s stupid.”
“That usually means it’s winning.”
Sara narrowed her eyes suspiciously before pushing the notebook toward her.
Rain tapped softly against the windows while distant voices drifted from another room.
They worked quietly together for a while.
Sara chewed her pencil while concentrating.
Mariya used to do that too.
God.
Every small resemblance hurt.
“You’re good at this,” Sara said eventually.
“I had strict teachers.”
“Amma helped me before.”
Sophia’s hand stilled slightly.
Sara kept writing.
“She made multiplication songs.”
Mariya used to invent ridiculous songs constantly for neighborhood children.
Sophia remembered every single one.
“You miss her,” Sophia said softly.
Sara nodded.
“Appa gets sad when I talk about her too much.”
Sophia swallowed carefully.
“What was she like?”
Children never need time to remember people they love.
“She smelled nice,” Sara said immediately.
Jasmine.
Always jasmine.
“She brushed my hair after baths.”
Sara crawled closer absentmindedly while counting numbers under her breath. One small hand rested lightly against Sophia’s knee.
The touch nearly destroyed her.
“And she sang badly,” Sara continued.
Sophia laughed once despite herself.
Mariya had sung terribly.
Hopelessly.
“You’re crying.”
Sophia touched her cheek.
One tear.
Enough.
“I’m okay.”
Sara studied her quietly.
“You miss someone too?”
Lying suddenly felt impossible.
“Yes.”
Sara nodded once.
No questions after that.
Just understanding.
________________________________________
The rest of the afternoon unfolded gently.
Sara drifted closer without noticing herself doing it.
Showing drawings.
Complaining about school.
Talking about church feasts.
At one point Sophia adjusted the child’s braid automatically after it loosened.
The motion felt instinctive.
Frighteningly instinctive.
Later Sara leaned comfortably against Sophia’s side while drawing saints with deeply questionable artistic proportions.
Sophia froze briefly.
Then relaxed without meaning to.
Warmth.
Trust.
Small fingers gripping the edge of her saree absentmindedly.
Something maternal moved through her so suddenly it hurt.
Sophia looked up once and found Mathew standing silently in the hallway watching them.
Not smiling.
Just looking at them like something inside him ached.
The sight unsettled her immediately.
Because the expression on his face wasn’t attraction.
It was longing.
________________________________________
Rachel noticed the change the moment she arrived later that evening.
Sara sat beside Sophia on the floor correcting spelling mistakes while Sophia helped with homework.
Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
“How was your day?” Rachel asked carefully.
Before Sophia answered, Sara looked up brightly.
“Sophia aunty is better at math than Appa.”
Mathew looked mildly offended.
“That is outrageous slander.”
Sara laughed.
The sound hit Sophia painfully.
Because for one brief second she heard Mariya laughing beside it.
Rachel looked at Sophia afterward.
Too carefully.
________________________________________
Night prayers happened before they left.
Family gathered inside the prayer room while candles flickered beneath saint statues and rain whispered softly beyond the walls.
Sara stood beside Sophia through the rosary.
Halfway through, she began swaying sleepily.
Sophia steadied her automatically with one hand.
Afterward Sara leaned fully against her.
Trusting.
Safe.
Sophia’s chest ached.
Near the entrance while everyone prepared to leave, Sara tugged gently at the edge of Sophia’s saree.
“Will you come again?”
Sophia looked down.
Mariya’s eyes looked back at her.
“Yes,” she said softly.
The answer came too quickly.
That frightened her all the way home.

------------------------------

Chapter 27 — Sara Sleeping Beside Her

The second time I visited Mathew’s house, Sara dragged me upstairs before I had even finished removing my sandals.
“Come see my room.”
“Sara,” Mathew called from the hallway, already sounding tired, “let Sophia sit down first.”
“She can sit in my room.”
Apparently that settled the matter.
Sara grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the staircase while servants disappeared toward the kitchen carrying steel dishes and coffee trays. Rain moved steadily across the tiled roof above us, soft enough to sound almost peaceful.
The staircase smelled faintly of sandalwood polish.
Old wood.
Prayer oil.
Books left too long in humidity.
Family photographs lined the walls.
Church festivals.
Baptisms.
Political dinners.
Then wedding photographs.
My steps slowed automatically.
Mariya stood smiling beside Mathew beneath jasmine garlands and church lights, gold jewelry heavy against her throat. Lucky stood awkwardly near the edge of one frame holding a bouquet like he regretted agreeing to photographs at all.
Alive.
Male.
Still existing somewhere.
Sara kept talking without noticing the silence growing inside me.
“Appa says I’m not allowed to paint on walls anymore because last time the paint stayed forever.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“It was only one saint.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
At the top of the staircase another feeling began creeping slowly beneath my skin.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Like returning somewhere I no longer had permission to enter.
Sara pushed open her bedroom dramatically.
“See?”
The room looked chaotic in deeply familiar ways.
Blankets tangled half off the bed.
Schoolbooks stacked badly beside dolls.
Hair ribbons hanging from drawer handles.
Children always leave evidence of themselves everywhere.
I looked around carefully.
“Very organized.”
Sara narrowed her eyes.
“You sound like Appa.”
“That’s upsetting for both of us.”
She laughed loudly and climbed onto the bed, immediately beginning an extremely serious explanation involving classroom betrayal, stolen pencils, and a conspiracy surrounding chocolate wrappers.
I tried listening.
Really.
But my attention had already shifted elsewhere.
Toward the half-open room across the hallway.
My stomach tightened immediately.
Sara noticed.
“That was Amma’s room.”
The word settled softly into the air.
Amma.
Not Mariya.
Not memory.
Mother.
I stared toward the doorway.
“Oh.”
“She liked sleeping there because rain sounded louder.”
Of course she did.
Mariya used to call me during storms after marriage just to complain about thunder dramatically for an hour.
I swallowed carefully.
Then Sara asked quietly:
“Do you want to see it?”
I should have refused immediately.
Instead I nodded.
The room felt wrong the moment I entered.
Not preserved.
Interrupted.
A book remained open near the bed.
A shawl still hung behind the bathroom door.
A half-empty perfume bottle rested beside the mirror.
Nothing looked curated for grief.
It looked like someone had stepped away briefly and everyone else became too afraid to disturb the absence afterward.
The smell hit me next.
Jasmine.
Faint now beneath dust and old wood.
But still there.
My chest tightened painfully.
I remembered helping Mariya choose curtains for this room after the wedding.
Remembered her complaining about wardrobe space.
Remembered sitting cross-legged on this exact floor while she cried over Mathew working too much.
Now I stood here wearing a soft blue saree and gold earrings while strangers called me Sophia.
The cruelty of it hollowed something inside me.
Sara wandered past me casually toward the dressing table.
“Appa doesn’t sleep here anymore.”
I kept staring at the room.
“Why?”
“He says it feels lonely.”
I couldn’t answer that.
Near the bed stood Mariya’s wardrobe.
Dark polished wood.
My body moved toward it before thought arrived.
I opened the second drawer automatically.
Then froze.
Hair clips.
Exactly where Mariya always kept them.
Cold spread slowly through my stomach.
I had not remembered deciding to open that drawer.
The motion simply happened.
Sara noticed nothing.
She sat on the floor drawing absentmindedly while I stood motionless beside the wardrobe trying to breathe normally.
Inside hung sarees arranged carefully by color.
Soft cottons.
Church whites.
Silks wrapped in protective covers.
Mariya’s clothes.
I touched one sleeve lightly.
The fabric felt painfully familiar beneath my fingers.
I remembered her stealing Lucky’s shirts after arguments because they were “more comfortable.”
Remembered teasing her for buying expensive blouses she wore twice.
Remembered folding laundry beside her while she talked endlessly about Sara refusing vegetables.
Memory arrived too physically inside this room.
Not thoughts.
Sensations.
Then Sara said quietly from behind me:
“You smell like Amma sometimes.”
Everything inside me stopped.
I turned slowly.
“What?”
“Flowers.”
Jasmine.
Rachel’s perfume.
My throat tightened immediately.
I looked away before my face betrayed something.
Near the wardrobe stood Mariya’s mirror.
Oval frame.
Dark wood.
Thin crack near the bottom corner.
Lucky made that crack years ago while moving furniture after the wedding.
The memory struck so hard I had to steady myself against the dresser.
Then I looked up fully.
Sophia stared back at me.
Long dark hair.
Gold earrings.
Soft silk saree.
A woman standing inside Mariya’s bedroom looking almost natural there.
For one impossible second the reflection felt more correct than memory did.
That frightened me more than resemblance.
Because Lucky suddenly felt distant.
Blurry.
But Sophia belonged perfectly inside this room.
A movement behind me made me turn sharply.
Mathew stood in the doorway.
Watching.
He had gone completely still.
Not lust.
Not attraction.
Grief.
Real grief.
His eyes moved from the mirror to the wardrobe to my hand still resting against Mariya’s clothes.
Something visibly cracked across his face before he controlled it.
I stepped away immediately.
“I was just—”
“You don’t need to explain.”
His voice sounded softer than usual.
Dangerously soft.
Sara barely noticed the tension.
She continued drawing saints with alarming artistic confidence while humming under her breath.
Mathew walked farther into the room slowly, careful like sudden movement might break something.
“She would’ve liked you,” he said quietly.
The sentence hit like physical impact.
I looked toward the balcony before my expression collapsed completely.
Then I saw it.
The framed photograph near the bookshelf.
Lucky.
The room tilted slightly.
Old church festival picture.
Mariya smiling brightly beside Mathew while Lucky stood awkwardly near them holding a paper cup and squinting into sunlight.
Alive.
Still existing.
I stared at my own face.
At the distance between him and me.
The man in the photograph looked familiar in the way childhood homes sometimes do after years away.
Recognizable.
But no longer entirely mine.
Mathew followed my gaze.
“You knew him?”
My pulse stumbled violently.
I forced my face still.
“A little. Through church.”
Mathew nodded slowly.
“He loved Mariya very much.”
I looked away immediately because suddenly breathing felt difficult.
Sara tugged my hand moments later asking for homework help downstairs.
The movement saved me.
I left the room too quickly.
But the feeling followed.
All evening Sara drifted unconsciously toward me.
Sitting beside me during tea.
Holding my wrist while talking.
Leaning against my shoulder during evening prayers.
Small domestic things.
Family things.
Nobody found it strange.
Not even Mathew.
Especially not Mathew.
That frightened me most.
Because every time he looked at us together something softened visibly inside him.
As though Sophia standing beside Sara repaired some private damage he carried constantly.
Rachel understood immediately when she arrived later that night.
One look at my face was enough.
“You went into her room.”
Not a question.
I nodded once.
Rain blurred the windshield during the drive home.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Then quietly:
“She still has clothes hanging there.”
Rachel tightened both hands around the steering wheel.
“Oh God.”
Back at the apartment I finally broke apart slowly.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just exhaustion collapsing inward.
Rachel sat beside me on the bedroom floor while I covered my face with both hands.
“I saw my own photograph,” I whispered.
Rachel closed her eyes briefly.
“And?”
My voice cracked.
“I didn’t recognize him immediately.”
Silence filled the room afterward.
Because it was true.
Lucky felt increasingly distant now.
Like someone I used to know very well.
Rachel wrapped both arms around me tightly while I shook against her shoulder.
“This was supposed to be revenge,” I whispered.
The words sounded weak.
Unconvincing.
Rachel held me harder.
Neither of us argued.
Because somewhere between Sara’s trust, Mathew’s grief, and Sophia becoming effortless—
the lines had stopped remaining separate.
And Lucky was becoming harder to reach.

------------------------------

Chapter 28 — The Kindness That Felt Dangerous

The storm arrived just after sunset.
Real monsoon violence.
Wind bent trees sideways outside the city while power flickered across entire neighborhoods in uneven bursts. Rain hammered the roads hard enough to erase lane markings completely.
I should not have been at Mathew’s house.
Rachel said so twice before I left.
“The roads will flood.”
“I’ll leave early.”
“You never leave early anymore.”
That sentence followed me all evening.
By nine o’clock the roads had vanished beneath dark water.
Leaving stopped being practical.
Then stopped being possible.
Servants moved through the house securing shutters while thunder rolled heavily across the backwaters beyond the property walls. Sara had exhausted herself rehearsing church songs and fell asleep upstairs clutching crayons against her chest.
The house grew quieter afterward.
Too quiet.
Rain battered the windows hard enough to shake the glass while backup generators cast weak amber light across the sitting room.
I sat at the far end of the sofa holding untouched tea between cold hands.
Mathew loosened his collar nearby.
Storms stripped polish from people.
Maybe because escape disappeared.
Maybe because silence finally had space to breathe.
“You’re uncomfortable,” he said.
“I’m trapped in a politician’s house during a cyclone.”
“That sounds fair.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
The lights flickered again.
Shadows shifted unevenly across the room.
No church crowds tonight.
No donors.
No performances.
Just rain.
“You disappear sometimes,” Mathew said after a while.
I looked up carefully.
“What?”
“Even during conversations.”
Because Lucky still screamed beneath Sophia’s skin whenever he came too close.
Because Mariya died afraid of him.
Because I increasingly forgot how revenge was supposed to feel around tenderness.
“I think too much,” I answered.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You would know.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
Rain struck the windows harder.
Then his expression changed slightly.
“Mariya hated storms.”
Her name entered the room softly and settled there.
I kept my breathing steady.
“She used to stay awake during thunder,” he continued quietly. “Pretended she wasn’t scared. Then grabbed my arm every time lightning hit.”
My chest tightened immediately.
Mariya used to call Lucky during storms after marriage.
Stay on the phone.
Just talk until the thunder stops.
The memory arrived so sharply I almost lost the room around me.
Mathew noticed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You look sad.”
I stared into the untouched tea.
Steam had already disappeared.
“I think everyone around you is sad,” I said quietly.
Silence followed.
Not angry.
Wounded.
“That obvious?” he asked finally.
“Yes.”
The honesty escaped before I could stop it.
Thunder cracked overhead violently.
I flinched hard enough that tea spilled across my fingers.
Mathew stood immediately.
“Hey.”
He crossed the room and sat beside me.
Not touching.
Just close enough that warmth reached me through cold air.
Another crack of thunder rolled through the house.
My body tightened automatically.
“You’re afraid of storms,” he murmured.
“No.”
Lie.
Mariya used to curl against Lucky during monsoons years ago.
Cold hands.
Warm legs.
Sleepy voice.
The memory hurt physically.
The power failed completely then.
Darkness swallowed the room.
I inhaled sharply before dim emergency lights flickered back alive several seconds later.
And without thinking—
I grabbed his wrist.
Just instinct.
Just balance.
But the room changed instantly.
I felt it.
So did he.
I tried pulling away immediately.
Mathew stopped me gently.
His hand closed slowly around mine.
Carefully.
Like sudden force might frighten me.
My pulse became unbearable.
“Sophia.”
No one had ever said my name like that before.
Not casually.
Not performatively.
Like it mattered.
Rain hammered the world outside.
I should have moved away.
Instead I sat frozen beneath his attention while his thumb brushed lightly against my knuckles.
Warm.
Steady.
Too gentle.
His other hand lifted slowly toward my face.
Enough warning to stop him.
Enough warning to leave.
I didn’t move.
His fingers touched my cheek softly.
Tenderly.
That nearly undid me.
Because monsters were easier when they stayed monstrous.
I stood abruptly.
“I need the bathroom.”
My voice sounded thin.
Mathew nodded immediately.
“Down the hallway.”
The corridor lights flickered weakly while rain forced itself through damaged window seals along the walls. Wind howled through the upper floor hard enough to rattle framed photographs.
Inside the bathroom, one side of the balcony doors had partially blown open.
Rain lashed through violently.
The carpets near the window were already soaked.
I moved instinctively toward the doors.
That was enough.
Wind hit hard.
Rain slammed into me immediately.
Cold.
Violent.
Unavoidable.
The saree soaked through within seconds.
Silk clung instantly against my stomach and thighs. Wet fabric tightened across my chest hard enough that I gasped aloud.
“Sophia—”
Mathew reached the doorway too late.
Another gust drove rain directly across both of us before the balcony doors finally slammed shut beneath combined effort.
I stood shaking slightly while water dripped from my hair onto polished flooring.
The saree had darkened nearly black now.
And become almost transparent.
I realized it at the exact moment Mathew looked away too carefully.
Heat rushed violently into my face.
The outline of my bra showed clearly beneath soaked silk.
My nipples hardened painfully from cold.
The wet blouse clung to every softened curve hormones had carved into my body over the past year.
Humiliation crashed through me instantly.
I crossed my arms automatically.
“I should leave.”
“Through flooded roads?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Sophia.”
His voice softened immediately.
“You’re freezing.”
The servants had tactfully disappeared downstairs.
Only rain remained.
Mathew removed his jacket slowly.
“Come with me.”
I hesitated.
Then followed him upstairs.
The master bedroom felt dim beneath emergency lighting.
Warmer.
More intimate.
Rain blurred the city completely beyond tall windows while thunder rolled endlessly over dark water outside.
Mathew opened the wardrobe carefully.
Then stopped moving.
Something changed visibly across his face.
Not lust.
Memory.
He reached toward folded fabric resting untouched on the upper shelf.
“You can wear this until your clothes dry.”
The moment I saw it, my stomach twisted violently.
Mariya’s nightdress.
Dark wine satin.
Thin straps.
Soft enough to slide through fingers like water.
I remembered her wearing it years ago while teasing Lucky for blushing too easily.
The memory struck so hard I nearly stepped backward.
“I can’t wear that,” I whispered.
Mathew looked down at the fabric for several long seconds.
“You don’t have to.”
But longing already lived in his eyes.
Not sexual.
Grieving.
The dead surviving inside objects.
I should have refused.
Instead I took the dress silently.
The bathroom mirror fogged quickly from heat and damp skin.
My hands shook while removing the soaked saree.
Wet silk peeled heavily from my body inch by inch.
The bra clung embarrassingly tight against softened flesh.
My blouse stuck against my waist.
Water rolled down smooth legs that no longer looked remotely masculine beneath amber light.
I avoided the mirror as long as possible.
Then finally looked up.
The nightdress barely weighed anything.
Cool satin slid across my skin and settled softly against my body. The fabric clung lightly at the waist before falling over my thighs in dark shimmering folds.
Not vulgar.
That made it worse.
Elegant.
Intimate.
The neckline revealed the softened curves of my chest effortlessly while thin straps left my shoulders bare beneath damp hair. My legs looked delicate beneath the short hemline, smooth skin catching warm light whenever I moved.
Everywhere I looked—
pieces of Mariya stared back.
The realization hollowed me.
When I finally stepped out, Mathew looked up from beside the window.
Then stopped breathing entirely.
Not desire first.
Grief.
“Mariya,” he whispered.
The name hit like violence.
For one terrible second, I forgot which one of us was dead.
Reality returned to him slowly afterward.
His face changed immediately.
“Sophia—I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
But my voice sounded far away.
Rain battered the windows endlessly behind him.
He kept looking at me carefully now.
Not at the dress.
At me inside it.
“She used to wear that during storms,” he admitted quietly.
I sat slowly at the edge of the bed because my knees suddenly felt weak.
“You loved her very much.”
A sad laugh escaped him.
“I don’t think I knew how to love people properly.”
That sounded honest enough to become dangerous.
Mathew poured whiskey into 2 glasses.
“Mariya thought silence meant anger,” he said quietly. “So she talked through every fight. Even crying.”
I stared down at Sophia’s hands resting against dark satin.
“And you?”
“I stopped talking when angry.”
Of course you did.
The thought arrived sharp and immediate.
But I buried it.
This was the work now.
Patience.
Trust.
Softness.
Mathew sat beside me eventually.
Careful distance.
The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight.
I became painfully aware of my body again.
Bare shoulders.
Cold skin.
Thin satin against thighs.
“You’re shivering,” he murmured.
“I’m fine.”
Lie.
He reached toward me slowly enough to refuse.
This time his fingers brushed damp hair away from my shoulder.
Heat flashed through me instantly.
Not desire.
Confusion.
My body no longer understood the difference between tenderness and danger.
“Sophia,” he said softly, “why do I feel like you’re always about to disappear?”
Because Lucky still screamed every time you touched me.
Because Mariya died terrified.
Because revenge had become tangled with loneliness somewhere along the way.
Instead I only looked at him.
And let silence answer.
His hand remained lightly against my arm.
Warm.
Steady.
Gentle.
Too gentle.
The storm isolated the bedroom from the rest of the world until time itself felt suspended there.
Then he smiled faintly.
“You’re dangerous.”
I almost laughed.
If only he knew.
At some point his fingers tilted lightly beneath my chin.
Enough warning to stop this.
Enough warning to survive it.
I didn’t move.
The kiss came slowly.
Tentative.
Searching.
I kissed him back half a second too late.
Long enough to know I could still stop this.
Long enough to understand I wasn’t going to.
The warmth of him shattered something inside me immediately.
Not because I wanted him.
Because Sophia did.
And Sophia was becoming harder to separate from myself every day.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against mine.
Rain thundered endlessly across the city outside.
“Stay,” he whispered.
Not demand.
Request.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Then nodded once.
The rest of the night passed dangerously gently.
No urgency.
No violence.
Just conversation beside storms and dim lighting and impossible closeness.
At one point I laughed genuinely at something stupid he said.
The sound horrified me afterward.
But Mathew looked at me like he had discovered sunlight.
And somewhere beneath the wreckage of revenge—
compassion answered before hatred could stop it.

The storm had quieted to a gentle drizzle, but the whiskey had not. Sophia felt warm and unsteady, the dark wine satin of Mariya’s babydoll nightdress clinging softly to her curves.

Mathew watched her from the bed, his eyes dark with quiet hunger and something gentler — affection. He reached for her hand and pulled her closer.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice rough with drink and want.

Sophia let herself be drawn onto the bed. His hands slid over the satin, cupping her breasts through the delicate material, thumbs brushing her nipples until they stiffened. She gasped softly at the sensation, the alcohol making her body more
obeying than she wanted. His touch felt good — too good — and that terrified her.

When his hand drifted lower, slipping between her thighs, Sophia tensed.

“Wait,” she whispered, catching his wrist. Her heart hammered. “I… I’m on my periods.”

Mathew paused, searching her face. For a moment she feared he wouldn’t believe her. Then he nodded, pressing a slow kiss to her collarbone.

“I understand,” he said gently, though disappointment flickered in his eyes.

Sophia felt a strange mix of relief and guilt. She didn’t want him inside her. Not tonight. Not like this. But the whiskey had loosened something dangerous inside her — a need to please, to stay in control, to give him something so he wouldn’t push for more.

She pushed him gently onto his back, straddling his thighs. The satin babydoll rode higher up her hips as she leaned down. Mathew’s breath hitched when she wrapped her fingers around his hard length, feeling the heat and weight of him.

“Sophia…” he breathed, voice thick.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she lowered her head, her long hair falling like a curtain around them. Her lips brushed the tip first — soft, tentative — before she took him into her mouth. The taste was salty, intimate. Mathew groaned deeply, one hand gently threading through her hair.

She moved slowly at first, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting every ridge and vein. The whiskey made her bold. She took him deeper, the thick heat filling her mouth, stretching her lips. Her hand stroked what she couldn’t take, slick with saliva. The wet, obscene sounds of her sucking filled the quiet room.

Mathew’s hips twitched upward, but he remained careful, never forcing her. “God, that feels incredible,” he rasped, fingers tightening gently in her hair.

Caught in the moment, Sophia lost herself in the rhythm — the heavy, pulsing warmth on her tongue, the way his thighs trembled beneath her, the low, broken sounds he made. For a few dangerous minutes, revenge faded. There was only the slick heat, the taste of him, and the strange, dizzying power of making this powerful man fall apart under her mouth.

When he came, it was with a deep groan, hips stuttering as he spilled across her tongue. Sophia swallowed instinctively, the warmth sliding down her throat. She stayed there for a moment longer, gently licking him clean, before pulling back.

Mathew pulled her up into his arms, kissing her forehead with dazed affection. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, already drifting toward sleep.

Sophia lay beside him in the dark, the taste of him still lingering in her mouth. The babydoll felt suddenly too thin, too revealing. The warmth of the whiskey was fading, leaving only a cold, hollow ache behind her ribs.

She had pleased him. She had kept control.

But as Mathew’s breathing deepened into sleep beside her, a quiet sadness settled over her like the rain outside. She had given him pleasure with the same mouth that had kissed Rachel only days ago. The same body that was supposed to be a weapon now felt stained.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she stared at the ceiling.

*What am I becoming?*

------------------------------

Chapter 29 — Rachel Watches Lucky Disappear

Sophia barely made it through the apartment door before the weight of the night crashed down on her. She stood trembling in the dim hallway, still wearing Mariya’s dark wine satin babydoll, the fabric now carrying the faint scent of Mathew’s cologne and skin.

Rachel took one look at her and understood everything.

Without a word, she gently took Sophia’s hand and led her toward the bathroom. The apartment was quiet except for the soft patter of early morning rain against the windows.

“Come,” Rachel whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

She turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until warm steam began to fill the small space. Sophia stood motionless as Rachel slowly peeled the babydoll from her body, letting the satin slip down and pool at her feet. Naked and vulnerable, Sophia stepped under the spray.

Rachel joined her moments later, also undressed. The warm water cascaded over both of them, soaking their hair and skin.

Rachel picked up the soap and lathered it between her hands until rich, fragrant suds formed. She started at Sophia’s shoulders, her touch gentle but deliberate, massaging the lather into Sophia’s skin in slow, soothing circles.

“You’re safe now,” Rachel murmured, her voice soft under the sound of running water. “He can’t touch you here.”

Her hands moved lower, gliding over Sophia’s full breasts, carefully washing away every trace of Mathew’s touch. Thumbs brushed tenderly over sensitive nipples as she cleansed her, the soap turning slippery between them. Sophia closed her eyes, a quiet sob escaping her lips.

Rachel pulled her closer under the warm spray, their wet bodies pressing together. She continued washing her — down Sophia’s stomach, over her hips, between her thighs — every stroke slow and intimate, as if symbolically scrubbing away Mathew’s claim.

“I can still taste him,” Sophia whispered brokenly, voice barely audible over the water.

Rachel tilted Sophia’s face up and kissed her softly, water streaming down their faces. “Then let me wash that away too.”

She turned Sophia gently so the water could rinse her back, then soaped her neck and throat where Mathew had kissed her. Her hands moved with loving reverence, massaging tension from Sophia’s muscles while symbolically cleansing the night from her skin.

“You gave him your body tonight,” Rachel said quietly, her fingers tracing down Sophia’s spine, “but he will never have your heart. Not while I’m here.”

Sophia leaned back against Rachel’s chest, letting the warm water and Rachel’s hands do their work. Tears mixed with the shower water on her cheeks.

“I hate how easy it was to please him,” she confessed. “For a moment I forgot why I was there.”

Rachel wrapped her arms around Sophia from behind, holding her tightly under the steady stream. One hand continued gently washing between Sophia’s legs, not with lust, but with tender care — washing away every lingering trace of Mathew.

“He touched what belongs to us,” Rachel whispered against her wet shoulder. “But this…” She pressed a slow kiss to the back of Sophia’s neck. “This is mine. You are mine.”

They stayed under the shower for a long time. Rachel washed Sophia’s hair next, fingers massaging her scalp with coconut-scented shampoo, rinsing away the smell of another man’s bed. Sophia gradually relaxed into the touch, the warm water and Rachel’s steady presence slowly pulling her back from the edge.

When they finally stepped out, Rachel wrapped Sophia in a large towel and dried her with the same care, kissing every inch of skin she touched.

Later, curled together naked under the blanket, Sophia buried her face in Rachel’s chest.

“I cried for Mariya tonight,” she whispered. “Not for myself.”

Rachel stroked her damp hair slowly. “That’s how I know Lucky is still in there somewhere.”

Sophia didn’t answer. She simply held Rachel tighter, letting the warmth of her body chase away the last shadows of the night.
Later, curled together naked under the blanket, Sophia buried her face in Rachel’s chest, still haunted by the taste and memory of the night.
Rachel stroked her damp hair in slow, soothing motions. After a long silence, she spoke softly but firmly:
“Sophia… you cannot let yourself break like this every time he touches you.”
Sophia stiffened slightly in her arms.
Rachel continued, her voice gentle yet resolute, “Revenge demands everything. You must be ready to do anything — even things that disgust you. What happened tonight? It was just a performance. A tool. You cannot afford to feel guilt or sadness every time you play your part. Those feelings will destroy you before you finish what we started.”
She tilted Sophia’s chin up so their eyes met.
“Remember why you’re doing this. Remember Mariya. Remember what he took from you. This body, this beauty, this closeness — they are weapons now. You cannot crumble every time he puts his hands on you. You have to become stronger than your shame.”
Sophia stayed quiet for a long moment, Rachel’s words sinking deep into her. The warmth of the shower and Rachel’s embrace still lingered on her skin, but something inside her shifted.
She drew in a slow, steady breath.
“You’re right,” Sophia whispered finally, her voice quieter but harder. “I can’t keep falling apart like this.”
A quiet resolve settled over her face. The tears in her eyes dried. Her jaw tightened just slightly.
Rachel watched the change with both pride and a touch of sadness. She kissed Sophia’s forehead softly.
“Good. Because the man who destroyed your sister doesn’t deserve even a moment of your genuine emotion. Save that for me… and for the day he finally pays.”
Sophia nodded slowly, her expression hardening into something colder, more determined.
For the first time in many weeks, Lucky’s anger stirred clearly beneath Sophia’s skin once again.
She would not crumble.
Not anymore.

------------------------------

Chapter 30 — Loving Mathew by Accident

The emerald saree looked unreal in afternoon sunlight.
Not bright green.
Something deeper.
Richer.
Like wet leaves after rain.
The chiffon shifted softly whenever Sophia breathed, brushing against her skin with dangerous elegance.
Rachel stood behind her adjusting the pleats for the third time.
“No politician’s wife is surviving this,” she announced dramatically.
Sophia laughed nervously while trying to fasten one diamond earring.
“You exaggerate constantly.”
“I’m being charitable.”
Rachel stepped closer and adjusted the saree pallu carefully across Sophia’s shoulder.
For a brief second her fingers lingered near the exposed curve of Sophia’s back.
Neither woman acknowledged it.
“You look like you already belong beside him,” Rachel said quietly.
Sophia looked toward the mirror instead of answering.
That silence said enough.
Rachel noticed.
Something unreadable flickered briefly across her face before disappearing beneath another teasing smile.
“Well,” she sighed dramatically, reaching for lipstick, “if you’re going to emotionally ruin a powerful man, at least do it beautifully.”
The wine-colored lipstick transformed Sophia instantly.
Softer.
Older.
More dangerous somehow.
Rachel stared openly afterward.
“This is becoming psychologically exhausting for me.”
Sophia laughed despite herself.
But beneath the laughter something warmer moved quietly through her chest.
Because Mathew had already sent three messages asking if she was ready.
________________________________________
The racecourse shimmered beneath bright blue skies.
Money moved differently there.
Quiet confidence.
Old surnames.
Women in silk dresses pretending not to notice who was watching them.
The moment Sophia stepped from the SUV, heads turned.
Mathew noticed immediately.
Without speaking, he rested one hand lightly against the small of her back and guided her forward.
The touch remained there nearly the entire afternoon.
Subtle.
Possessive only in the gentlest possible way.
Sophia hated how safe it made her feel.
Every introduction sounded the same.
“This is Sophia.”
Nothing more.
No explanation necessary.
People smiled knowingly anyway.
An older woman wearing pearls leaned closer at one point and said softly:
“You soften him.”
Sophia smiled politely.
But the sentence followed her long afterward.
Because maybe it was true.
And maybe that was the danger.
________________________________________
Weeks passed strangely after that.
Days rearranged themselves around Mathew almost without Sophia noticing.
Morning calls before meetings.
Late-night conversations stretching past midnight.
Photos of Sara asleep in the backseat during long drives.
Voice notes complaining about politics.
Flowers arriving without occasion.
Sophia started choosing outfits while unconsciously wondering whether Mathew would like them.
Rachel noticed every change.
One evening she found Sophia replaying one of Mathew’s voice notes while smiling absently into her tea.
“You’re building your life around him,” Rachel said quietly.
Sophia looked up immediately.
“I’m not.”
Rachel gave her a sad smile.
“You already did.”
________________________________________

The rooftop restaurant overlooked Kochi in scattered gold lights. Glass walls framed the glittering city while rain began falling softly beyond the balcony. Soft violin music played in the background. Sophia arrived wearing deep wine silk that shimmered whenever she moved. Mathew forgot what he was saying the moment he saw her.

Dinner unfolded with terrifying ease. They spoke of travel, books, Sara’s school antics, and the quiet fears of growing older. The intimacy frightened Sophia more than flirtation ever had. It sounded like two people imagining a shared future.

At one point Mathew watched her across the candlelight and smiled.

“You make ordinary things feel peaceful,” he said softly.

Sophia looked down at her plate, something inside her chest aching. She forced a gentle smile.

Mathew reached across the table and took her hand.

“Sophia… I don’t want this to be temporary anymore.” His voice was low, almost hesitant. “I’ve spent years carrying ghosts. But when I’m with you, the weight feels lighter. I want to build something real again. With you.”

He paused, searching her face.

“Will you marry me?”

The question landed like a blade. For one suspended second Sophia felt the ground tilt. This was the moment the plan had been moving toward.

She looked into his eyes and let her voice soften with practiced warmth.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I will.”

Mathew’s face transformed with genuine joy. He laughed, relieved and bright, then stood and pulled her into a kiss. Applause rippled from nearby tables. Sophia smiled against his mouth, playing the shy, happy fiancée perfectly.

When they sat again, Mathew waved over the waiter with new energy.

“Whiskey. The 18-year one. And a bottle of champagne,” he ordered. “We’re celebrating tonight.”

Sophia touched his wrist gently. “I’ll just have water. My head is already spinning from happiness.”

He laughed and kissed her knuckles. “Then I’ll drink for both of us.”

The drinks arrived. Mathew poured himself a generous measure of whiskey while the champagne chilled beside them. Sophia watched him drink, her expression soft and adoring on the outside.

Halfway through his second glass, Mathew leaned back, eyes warm with alcohol and affection. He studied her face.

“You know… you remind me of her sometimes,” he said quietly. “The way you smile — that little tilt at the corner when you’re really listening. Mariya had the exact same smile. And your face… the shape of your eyes, the way you tilt your head. Even the jasmine perfume you wear. She loved it too. Used to put it on her wrists every evening.”

Sophia nodded gently, eyes full of tender concern. *Inside, her stomach twisted violently. How dare you use my sister’s memory as foreplay?*

“Tell me about her,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. “If it doesn’t pain you too much.”

Mathew took another long sip and sighed, settling into the story as if he had told it many times in his head.

“She wasn’t always like that. In the beginning she was wonderful. But after Sara was born, everything changed. She started having affairs. I caught her once in our own car, parked behind the parish hall during a late meeting. Some low-level party worker named Suresh. She tried to deny it, said they were just talking. But her blouse was open and his hands were on her. I forgave her that time. Thought it was a mistake.”

Sophia nodded slowly, her face a mask of sympathetic sorrow. *Liar. You disgusting, evil liar.* Rage burned white-hot inside her chest. She wanted to stab him with the butter knife.

“That must have been devastating,” she murmured gently. “What happened after that?”

Mathew shook his head, pouring more whiskey.

“It got worse. She started drinking heavily. Every evening she would scream abuses at me — calling me a controlling bastard, a fake Christian, saying I ruined her life. Once she threw a hot pressure cooker at me in the kitchen. Burned my arm badly. Another time she slapped me in front of the servants because I asked her to stop drinking before Sara came home from school. She stopped being a mother. Sara would cry asking why Amma was always sleeping or shouting.”

Sophia kept nodding, her expression full of loving concern while inside she was screaming. *Mariya never raised her voice in anger. She protected Sara with her life. How dare you paint her as a monster?*

She stroked his cheek tenderly. “You carried so much alone. What about her brother? Lucky?”

Mathew’s face darkened.

“Ah, that bastard. A complete parasite. Always hanging around my office, stealing cash from my drawer, asking for favours for his useless football friends. He was a notorious playboy — used to cat-call girls near the bus stand in Alappuzha, bet thousands on matches and lose everything. Once he eve-teased a college girl so badly outside St. Sebastian’s church that her father came to complain to me. I had to pay them off to keep it quiet.”

Sophia’s hand tightened slightly on his. *Lucky was shy. Gentle. He would never…* Her vision blurred with fury, but her face remained soft and understanding.

“He was even worse with women,” Mathew continued, voice lowering conspiratorially. “He molested Rachel’s younger sister — Beaulah. She was only nineteen. He cornered her near the backwaters one evening after a parish function. When she threatened to tell everyone, he ran her over in a hit-and-run. I had to handle the entire case. he turned around and started blackmailing me. Said he would tell the world that Mariya was cheating and unstable, that I drove her to suicide. Threatened to leak fake videos and messages. He was drunk out of his mind the night it happened — terrified the police were finally coming for him. He slipped on the wet dock and fell into the water. Another tragedy I had to clean up.”

Sophia listened with wide, sympathetic eyes, gently rubbing his arm. *Inside, she was shaking with rage. He turned my own name into a rapist and murderer. He stole my sister’s dignity twice — once by killing her, once by erasing her.* She wanted to lunge across the table and choke the life out of him.

Instead, she whispered softly, “You protected everyone, even when they hurt you. How did you survive all that pain?”

Mathew smiled at her gratefully, finishing another glass. His eyes were glassy now.

“Because God finally rewarded me after all that punishment,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “The cheating wife, the abusive marriage, the blackmail, the betrayals — He sent me you. My soulmate. My peace. You are gentle where she was cruel. You love Sara like your own daughter. You are everything I prayed for after years of suffering.”

He raised his glass toward her.

Sophia smiled beautifully, her face glowing with tender love while inside, the last illusions about Mathew shattered into dust. This was not a flawed man. This was a monster who had rewritten reality so completely that he believed every word.

She wanted to kill him right there — smash the whiskey bottle across his skull and watch him bleed out on the restaurant floor.

But then she thought of Sara sleeping peacefully at home.

Of Rachel waiting for her in their apartment.

Of the quiet life they could still build after this nightmare ended.

Sophia leaned forward and kissed him softly on his cheek.

“You deserve this happiness,” she whispered. “We both do.”

Mathew pulled her closer, drunk and content, completely unaware that the woman in his arms had just sealed his fate.

Revenge was no longer a question.

It was a vow.
________________________________________
Rain hammered softly against the hotel windows later that night.
The suite smelled faintly of whiskey and expensive cologne.
Sophia stood near the glass overlooking the city while Mathew approached slowly behind her.
“You regret saying yes?” he asked softly.
Sophia turned.
“No.”
Another easy lie.
Mathew touched her face gently.
“I talked too much at the bar.”
“You were honest.”
He laughed quietly.
“That sounds generous.”
The room dimmed around them beneath city light and rain.
When he kissed her, Sophia kissed him back automatically.
Later, when Mathew fell asleep beside her with one arm resting loosely across her waist, Sophia lay awake staring at the ceiling while rain blurred the city beyond the glass.
She finally understood something terrible.
Revenge had failed the moment she began loving pieces of him.
Now destruction would hurt everyone involved.
Especially her.
________________________________________
By dawn the sky had faded pale blue.
Rachel opened the apartment door before Sophia could knock twice.
One look at her face was enough.
The wine-colored saree hung loose around Sophia now. Her lipstick had faded unevenly. Jasmine flowers slipped half-fallen from her hair.
Rachel stepped closer carefully.
“What happened?”
Sophia shook her head once.
“I don’t know anymore.”
Her voice broke.
Rachel said nothing.
She simply led Sophia quietly toward the bedroom.
The apartment felt cool and dim compared to the suffocating warmth of the hotel suite.
Sophia sat at the edge of the mattress trembling while Rachel slowly removed her jewelry piece by piece.
Earrings.
Bangles.
The chain resting against her throat.
Each touch felt unbearably gentle.
Rachel loosened Sophia’s hair afterward, fingers moving softly through tangled curls until jasmine flowers slipped free onto the blanket between them.
“You don’t have to keep becoming whatever he wants,” Rachel whispered.
Sophia looked down immediately because guilt struck so sharply it almost made her nauseous.
Rachel touched her cheek lightly and turned her face back toward her.
For a long moment neither woman spoke.
Then Rachel pressed a soft kiss against Sophia’s forehead.
Not romantic.
Not platonic.
Something sadder.
Sophia finally broke completely after that.
Rachel held her while dawn slowly filled the apartment in pale blue light.
And for the first time in months, Sophia cried for Mariya instead of herself.
Sophia told everything that happened, the marriage proposal, the lies Mathew spoke, the Revenge.

------------------------------

Chapter 31 — The Marriage and the Mother Never Meant to Become

The wedding preparations began the moment I agreed.
That was how families like Mathew’s operated.
The second priests, relatives, and political allies sensed inevitability, momentum replaced choice completely. Dates appeared before conversations finished. Guest lists multiplied overnight. Gold jewelry arrived from invisible aunties carrying velvet boxes and louder opinions.
And through all of it—
I moved like someone attending my own haunting.
“You should at least pretend to care about flowers,” Rachel muttered one afternoon while church women debated white lilies versus jasmine garlands with near-religious intensity.
“I support whichever flowers die fastest.”
“That’s deeply concerning for a bride.”
“That sounds like a structural problem with weddings.”
Rachel laughed despite herself.
The sound faded quickly.
Everything between us carried sadness now.
The apartment transformed slowly into a staging ground for marriage.
Invitation samples covered the dining table.
Sarees hung from cupboard doors.
Jewelry boxes appeared almost daily from Mathew’s relatives.
Sophia’s future assembled itself piece by piece while Lucky disappeared quietly beneath it.
I stopped looking into mirrors much during those weeks.
Not because the reflection shocked me anymore.
Because it didn’t.
That frightened me more.
The night before the wedding, rain drifted softly across Kochi while Rachel helped prepare everything in silence.
No relatives.
No church noise.
Just us.
The bedroom smelled faintly of sandalwood, starch, and jasmine oil. Wedding clothes waited carefully arranged across the bed beneath warm yellow lamplight.
White silk saree.
Gold border.
Heavy jewelry.
A bride’s armor.
Rachel stood near the bed steaming the saree carefully while I sat before the mirror unable to look directly at myself for very long.
For several minutes neither of us spoke.
There was too much silence already living between us.
Finally Rachel asked quietly:
“Are you sure?”
The question arrived too late.
That was the tragedy of it.
Nothing about this could stop cleanly anymore.
Sara already trusted me.
Mathew already loved me.
The church already celebrated us publicly.
Sophia existed everywhere now.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Rachel switched the steamer off slowly and crossed the room toward me.
Her fingers settled gently into my hair.
“You can still run.”
The image almost made me smile.
Run where?
Lucky no longer existed anywhere outside old photographs and memories nobody visited anymore.
And revenge—
How could I forget the revenge?
Rachel began brushing my hair slowly afterward.
Careful strokes.
Patient silence.
The intimacy hurt more than touching ever used to.
“I hate helping you marry him,” she whispered eventually.
Honest words.
I closed my eyes.
“I know.”
Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows while the brush moved steadily through my hair.
“I wish this had stayed simple,” Rachel said.
“It was never simple.”
No.
It stopped being simple the moment Sophia stopped feeling temporary.
________________________________________
The morning of the wedding arrived wrapped in monsoon humidity and church bells.
The parish transformed overnight.
White flowers lined the church entrance.
Candles flickered beneath saint statues.
Choir voices echoed through open stone corridors while relatives flooded every available space dressed in silk and gold.
Political banners stood discreetly near the reception hall because even weddings became campaigns around men like Mathew.
I sat inside the bridal preparation room barely breathing while older women adjusted jewelry against my skin.
“You look nervous,” one auntie laughed warmly.
If only she knew.
Rachel entered quietly carrying the final veil and dismissed everyone else with surprising firmness.
“Give us five minutes.”
The women left reluctantly.
Then silence settled over the room again.
Rachel stood before me holding the veil carefully in both hands.
Neither of us moved immediately.
I looked terrible in bridal white.
Not ugly.
Worse.
Believable.
The saree draped perfectly across a body now shaped fully by Sophia’s life. My hair had been pinned elegantly beneath jasmine flowers. Gold rested warm against my throat and wrists.
Bride.
Wife.
The words tightened around my lungs.
Rachel stepped closer and fixed the veil carefully into my hair with trembling fingers.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.
Pain crossed her face immediately afterward.
Because beauty had become part of the tragedy now.
I caught her wrist gently before she could move away.
“I’m scared.”
The confession sounded smaller aloud.
Rachel leaned forward until her forehead rested briefly against mine.
“So am I.”
Church bells rang outside then, loud enough to shake the windows.
Time.
________________________________________
The procession began moments later.
Incense thickened the church air beneath candlelight while choir hymns rose through ancient stone walls. Guests turned together as I entered beside Sara and a line of church relatives moving slowly toward the altar.
Hundreds of faces.
Politicians.
Priests.
Businessmen.
Families.
Everyone smiling at Sophia.
I barely felt my feet touching the floor.
Then I saw Mathew waiting near the altar.
And for one terrible moment—
He looked genuinely happy.
Not political.
Not performative.
Happy.
The sight hurt more than cruelty would have.
Revenge still burned somewhere inside me.
But Mathew looked at Sophia like salvation had arrived walking toward him through church light.
Sara stood beside him in tiny gold bangles and flowers woven through her curls.
Mariya’s daughter.
Waiting for me at the altar.
Reality folded painfully inward.
The Holy Qurbana began beneath drifting incense smoke and ancient Syriac prayers. Candles flickered softly across gold crosses and stained-glass saints overhead.
Marriage as sacrament.
Marriage as burial.
I knelt beside Mathew through prayers I barely heard.
My mind kept splitting between past and present.
Mariya standing in this same church years ago.
Lucky adjusting his shirt nervously at her wedding.
Family laughter afterward.
Now Sophia occupied the place beside Mathew instead.
Replacement completed publicly before God.
When the vows arrived, my throat nearly closed.
Mathew spoke first.
Steady voice.
Certain eyes.
Every word sounded sincere.
Then my turn.
The church blurred slightly through gathering tears.
I remembered Mariya with sudden painful clarity—
Her late-night phone calls.
Her laughter.
Her fear during storms.
For one suspended moment I almost stopped everything.
Almost confessed.
Almost ran.
Then Sara reached quietly for my hand beside us.
Tiny fingers.
Complete trust.
And the moment passed.
I finished the vows somehow.
The minnu tying happened beneath absolute silence.
The sacred gold chain rested cold against my skin while Mathew’s hands trembled fastening it around my neck.
Husband and wife.
The church bells erupted afterward while applause filled the sanctuary and choir voices climbed triumphantly toward the ceiling.
Everyone smiled.
Everyone celebrated.
Inside me, something went still.
Sara hugged me immediately after the ceremony.
Tightly.
Emotionally.
“Amma would like you,” she whispered against my saree.
The sentence nearly broke me.
I held her carefully while cameras flashed endlessly around us.
________________________________________
Public celebration swallowed everything afterward.
The reception hall glittered beneath church influence and political power. Ministers shook hands beside bishops while photographers captured every smile for newspapers and social media.
Mathew never stopped looking happy.
That part haunted me most.
He stayed close constantly.
Introduced me proudly.
Touched my hand unconsciously throughout conversations.
Real affection.
Real trust.
Rachel moved gracefully through the crowd helping organize guests, smiling when required.
But every time our eyes met across the room—
Grief passed silently between us.
At one point during dinner, I caught my reflection accidentally in a mirrored pillar near the stage.
Sophia Varghese.
For several long seconds I searched internally for Lucky.
Nothing answered immediately.
Only distance.
Then applause pulled me back again as another politician began praising Mathew publicly into microphones.
I smiled automatically beside my husband while guests celebrated around us.
________________________________________
The house finally quieted near midnight.
Servants disappeared upstairs one by one after clearing the last dishes while distant rain softened against tiled roofs outside.
The bridal bedroom glowed warmly beneath dim yellow lamps.
Rose petals.
Candles.
Jasmine strands hanging carelessly across the headboard.
A room prepared carefully for consummation.
I stood near the doorway unable to move for several seconds.
The heavy silk saree weighed against my body now. Gold jewelry pressed painfully against my skin after an entire day of ceremonies and smiles.
Mathew closed the bedroom door quietly behind us.
The bridal bedroom smelled of fresh jasmine garlands, rose petals scattered across the white sheets, and faint sandalwood incense that still lingered from the evening prayers. A single string of marigolds hung over the carved wooden headboard, and two oil lamps cast a warm, golden glow across the room. The heavy silk curtains were drawn, sealing them inside this private world of new beginnings.
Mathew closed the door with a soft click. For a long moment he simply looked at her — his bride standing in the center of the room in her heavy white silk saree.
“You look like something out of a dream,” he whispered.
Sophia stood perfectly still as he approached. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. This was the moment she had both feared and prepared for.
Mathew touched her face first, tilting her chin up gently before kissing her. The kiss was slow, reverent, full of emotion. He kissed her again and again, deepening gradually as his hands moved to the edge of her pallu.
With deliberate care, he began unwrapping her.
He pulled the pallu from her shoulder, letting the heavy embroidered silk slide down her arm. Then he worked at the pleats tucked at her waist, unfolding each fold of the saree with patient hands. Layer after layer of white silk whispered to the floor until she stood before him in only her blouse and petticoat, gold jewelry still adorning her neck, ears, and wrists.
Mathew’s breathing had grown heavier. He opened the hooks of her blouse one by one, his fingers slightly unsteady. When the blouse fell away, he stepped back for a moment just to look at her — bare breasts rising and falling with nervous breaths, the minnu resting between them like a mark of ownership.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, as he loosened the strings of her petticoat. The last piece of clothing slid down her legs and pooled at her feet.
Sophia stood completely naked before him except for the gold jewelry and the minnu around her neck.
Mathew guided her gently onto the bed, laying her back against the rose petals. He undressed quickly, never taking his eyes off her. When he settled between her thighs, he kissed her again — long, slow kisses that tasted of whiskey and commitment.
“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered against her lips.
Sophia nodded, her body tense.
He positioned himself and pushed inside her slowly. Sophia gasped sharply at the stretch, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The sensation was intense — full, deep, invasive. Her new body accepted him, but her mind recoiled even as pleasure and pain blurred together.
Mathew groaned deeply as he sank fully into her. “Sophia… you feel perfect.”
He began moving — slow, deliberate thrusts, savoring every moment. He kept kissing her throughout, on her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, murmuring soft words between each kiss.
“You’re my wife now… my beautiful wife…”
Sophia wrapped her arms around him, letting him move inside her. She felt every inch, every stroke. Her breasts pressed against his chest with each thrust. The mangalsutra swayed between them, a constant reminder of what this night meant.
Mathew’s pace gradually quickened. His breathing became ragged. He buried his face in her neck as he chased his release, hips moving harder, deeper.
With a low, guttural groan, he came inside her, hips stuttering as he spilled deep within her body. He held her tightly through the aftershocks, trembling against her.
For several long moments the only sound was their breathing and the soft patter of rain outside.
Mathew finally lifted his head and looked at her with genuine concern. He searched her face, still buried inside her.
“You didn’t…” He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I wanted tonight to be perfect for you.”
Sophia touched his cheek gently, forcing a small, tired smile.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It was… a lot.”
He looked genuinely pained. “I should have been more patient. I wanted to make you feel good.”
He kissed her again, softly this time, full of remorse and affection. Then he carefully pulled out and gathered her into his arms, holding her against his chest as if she were something fragile.
“I promise I’ll make it better next time,” he murmured into her hair, stroking her back. “You deserve to feel everything I feel.”
Sophia lay silently in her husband’s arms, his seed slowly leaking between her thighs.
Inside her chest, the conflict roared louder than ever.
He just came inside the body he helped destroy my sister for.
And yet a small, terrifying part of her — the part that was becoming more Sophia every day — had felt the beginning of something dangerously close to pleasure.
She closed her eyes and let Mathew hold her, the weight of the minnu and his arm around her pressing her deeper into her new reality.

------------------------------

Chapter 32 — The Truth About Mariya

The first morning after the wedding did not feel sacred.

It felt domestic.

Rain drifted softly beyond the tiled roof while servants moved through downstairs hallways preparing breakfast trays and school lunches. Somewhere near the kitchen, an old devotional song played quietly from a radio with poor reception.

Life had already resumed.

As though weddings existed only to rearrange people inside routines.

I woke before sunrise.

For several seconds I forgot where I was.

Then the minnu resting cold against my throat pulled reality back immediately.

Wife.

The word settled heavily across my chest.

Mathew still slept beside me, one arm stretched carelessly across the mattress, exhaustion softening his face into someone younger and strangely vulnerable.

Last night returned in fragments.

Candles.
Jasmine.
His hands trembling while removing my jewelry.
The unbearable gentleness afterward.

I slipped from the bed quietly before memory could settle deeper.

The silk nightdress brushed softly against my thighs as I crossed the room. My wedding saree still lay folded carefully across a chair nearby like evidence from another life.

Outside the bedroom the house remained dim beneath pale blue dawn light.

And without thinking—

I walked toward the kitchen.

Like Mariya used to.

The realization struck halfway down the staircase.

I stopped completely.

One hand tightened instinctively around the wooden railing.

Then I kept walking anyway.

Because my body already understood the rhythms here somehow.

Tea first.
Lunch boxes second.
Uniforms before breakfast.

Invisible labor.

The kind households rested upon without ever noticing.

The kitchen staff startled visibly seeing me enter so early.

“Madam—”

“It’s alright,” I said automatically.

I tied the loose end of my nightdress higher around my waist before opening cabinets I should not have known instinctively.

But I did know.

Tea leaves.
Steel tumblers.
Sara’s lunch containers.

Mariya had once complained endlessly about how badly organized this kitchen was.

Now my hands moved through it naturally.

The horror of that sat quietly beneath everything.

Twenty minutes later Sara wandered downstairs carrying one shoe and half a ribbon hanging from her hair.

“Good morning.”

Sleep still clung to her voice.

I looked at the single shoe.

“Why are you holding only one foot?”

“I can’t find the other one.”

“That sounds medically serious.”

She giggled immediately and climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs while I searched beneath counters and prayer stools automatically.

Not acting.

Not pretending.

Automatic.

That frightened me more than femininity ever had.

I found the missing shoe near the balcony doors and returned to discover Sara trying to braid her own hair.

Poorly.

Very poorly.

“Stop immediately.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re assaulting your own scalp.”

She laughed and surrendered the brush dramatically.

I stood behind her and began fixing her hair.

Small movements.
Simple movements.

My fingers separated the strands carefully before weaving them together with practiced ease. Then I tucked loose ribbon ends beneath the braid exactly the way Mariya once taught me years ago.

The memory hit so hard I almost lost the rhythm of my hands.

Sara kept talking through everything.

Teachers.
Choir gossip.
A classmate who cried because somebody stole glitter pens.

I answered while checking homework sheets spread across the dining table and packing her lunch box simultaneously.

At some point I tucked the saree-like folds of my nightdress tighter into my waist while reaching for hot tea.

The gesture happened unconsciously.

A wife’s gesture.
A mother’s gesture.

I saw it only afterward in the reflection of the microwave door.

And suddenly Lucky felt impossibly far away again.

Mathew entered quietly a few minutes later.

He stopped near the kitchen doorway and simply watched us.

His expression changed slowly.

Contentment.

Deep enough to frighten me.

Sara sat swinging her legs while eating dosa, ribbons neat now, lunch packed beside her.

And I—

I stood beside the stove reminding her to finish her milk while checking whether rain would delay school traffic.

The room looked complete.

Family.

The thought tightened painfully around my ribs.

Mathew crossed toward the coffee machine without interrupting the scene.

“You’re spoiling her already,” he murmured.

“She was attempting self-destruction with ribbon violence.”

Sara gasped dramatically.

“I was doing fashion.”

“That explains the tragedy.”

Mathew laughed softly under his breath while pouring coffee.

The sound warmed the room too naturally.

That was the danger now.

Not seduction.

Normalcy.

Rachel arrived an hour later carrying constituency files Johnson needed signed before church meetings.

She stopped the second she entered the dining room.

I understood immediately why.

Sara sat beside me while I adjusted her collar and wiped chutney carefully from the corner of her mouth using a napkin already resting in my hand.

Practiced movements.

Instinctive movements.

A household rhythm already forming around Sophia.

Rachel’s expression shifted almost invisibly.

Not jealousy first.

Fear.

“You’re awake early,” she said carefully.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Before anything else could be said, Sara jumped down suddenly after spotting her schoolbag near the sofa.

Then halfway across the room she turned back casually.

“Amma, where’s my water bottle?”

Silence.

Everything stopped.

Even the servants looked up briefly before pretending not to hear.

My heart slammed violently against my ribs.

Amma- Mother

The word entered the room with devastating softness.

Not performance.
Not confusion.

Recognition.

My body reacted before thought arrived.

I almost answered immediately.

Almost.

Sara looked startled herself afterward.

Not because she understood the weight of it.

Because we did.

Mathew stared at me with something dangerously fragile moving across his face.

“No, I mean— Sophia—”

“It’s okay,” Mathew said quietly.

His voice sounded rough.

I could not breathe properly.

Across the room Rachel watched me carefully.

Watching the transformation happen in real time.

“I’ll get it,” I managed somehow.

Then escaped into the kitchen before my face betrayed me completely.

My hands shook against the counter while I searched for the bottle beside the drying rack.

Mother.

Not disguise.
Not strategy.

Sara had reached for the role naturally because Sophia already occupied it everywhere else.

Rachel followed me a few minutes later.

Of course she did.

“You okay?”

No.

I laughed weakly instead.

“That child just called me Amma.”

Rachel leaned against the doorway silently.

“Yes.”

“I almost answered automatically.”

The words sat heavily between us.

Rain tapped softly against the kitchen windows while servants moved carefully somewhere deeper inside the house pretending not to overhear anything.

Rachel stepped closer slowly.

“You don’t have to punish yourself for loving her.”

“That isn’t the problem.”

My voice cracked.

“The problem is that it felt real.”

Rachel closed her eyes briefly because she understood exactly what I meant.

Not roleplay.

Not manipulation.

Reality.

She reached toward me instinctively, fingers brushing lightly against my wrist.

“You’re still Lucky.”

Was I?

The question terrified me because I no longer knew the answer immediately.

Later that afternoon I locked myself inside the upstairs bathroom and cried quietly until my chest hurt.

Not from shame.

From grief.

Something had shifted permanently over breakfast and school ribbons and a missing water bottle.

Children said things without calculation.

Sara saw a mother when she looked at me.

And increasingly—

I did too.

The church blessing happened that evening beneath soft candlelight and monsoon thunder.

Parish women smiled approvingly while touching my arm and adjusting my saree pallu affectionately.

“Married life suits you.”

“You already look settled.”

“You and Sara seem so close.”

Each sentence tightened around my lungs.

Mathew stood proudly beside me through prayers while incense drifted beneath saint statues overhead.

Perfect family.

Beautiful wife.
Respected husband.
Sweet daughter.

At some point during prayer Sara wandered sleepily toward me and leaned against my side without asking permission.

Without thinking, I rested one hand protectively over her hair.

Automatic again.

Rachel stood several rows behind us beside Johnson.

Watching.

Watching the replacement happen piece by piece.

After prayers ended, priests pulled Mathew aside for political conversation near the church entrance.

Rachel approached quietly afterward while Sara chased raindrops near the courtyard steps.

“You look happy,” Rachel said softly.

I opened my mouth immediately to deny it.

Then stopped.

Because holding Sara had felt peaceful.

Not safe.
Not right.

Peaceful.

Rachel saw the truth before I answered.

Pain crossed her face too quickly to hide.

Night settled slowly afterward.

Rain returned heavier against the tiled roof while the house darkened room by room.

Sara refused to sleep alone because thunder still frightened her.

So eventually I lay beside her beneath the soft glow of a nightlight while she curled instinctively against my side clutching blankets.

“Goodnight,” she mumbled sleepily.

“Goodnight.”

“Love you.”

The words arrived casually.
Certain.
Childlike.

My chest tightened painfully.

“I love you too,” I whispered automatically.

Then froze.

Too late.

Sara already slept peacefully beside me.

I stared upward into darkness while rain whispered softly against windows.

Because the answer had arrived without hesitation.

Real.
Immediate.

Downstairs, Rachel was still awake.

I knew she was.

And I knew what frightened her now.

Not Mathew.
Not revenge.

Disappearance.

Lucky fading quietly inside domestic rituals and bedtime kisses and school mornings.

Sara shifted slightly in sleep beside me, pressing closer unconsciously.

Without thinking, I pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders.

The exact same way Mariya used to.

The realization hollowed me instantly.

Because this time—

I had not remembered first.

My body had.

And somewhere deep inside the silence of that darkened room,

Sophia no longer felt like someone pretending to be a mother.

She simply was one.

------------------------------

Chapter 33 — Planning Mathew’s End

The bedroom was quiet except for the soft patter of rain against the tiles. Sophia lay beside Mathew in the large marital bed, wearing a deep burgundy silk nightdress that clung gently to her curves. The heavy gold minnu rested between her breasts — a constant, cold reminder.

Mathew’s hand traced lazy circles on her thigh, his touch growing bolder. Sophia’s stomach tightened. She could not bear another night of his hands on her. Not yet.

She reached for the bottle of wine on the bedside table — the one the servants had left with two glasses.

“Let me pour for you,” she whispered tenderly, smiling at him.

While Mathew watched her with warm, expectant eyes, Sophia turned slightly and slipped two crushed sleeping pills into his glass, then a half-dose into her own. She handed him the stronger one.

“To us,” she said softly, clinking glasses.

Mathew drank deeply, eyes never leaving her. Sophia took small sips, watching him.

Within twenty minutes, his eyelids grew heavy. He pulled her close, murmuring sleepily about how beautiful she was, but his body soon relaxed into deep, drugged sleep.

Sophia lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but relief.

Sunlight spilled across the hotel suite in pale gold bands, warming the tangled sheets around Sophia’s legs while the city far below resumed itself without permission.

Traffic.
Ferries.
Church bells drifting faintly through humid air.
Vendors shouting across wet streets.

Kochi moved forward exactly as it had yesterday.
Beside her, Mathew still slept deeply.

One arm lay heavy across her waist beneath the sheet, his fingers curled loosely against her stomach with unconscious familiarity.

Sophia stared upward without blinking.

In sleep, he looked older.

Not weaker.
Just human.

The carefully controlled charisma disappeared once exhaustion softened his face. Stubble darkened his jaw unevenly. His mouth rested slightly open. One faint line cut deeply beside his eyes now, visible only when he stopped performing confidence.

Human.

That was the terrible thing.

Real monsters would have been easier.

A monster would know what he had done.

Mathew believed himself innocent.

Sophia turned her head slowly toward him.

The same hands that touched her gently now had once held Mariya lovingly too.

The same voice that whispered tenderness beside candlelight had rewritten a dead woman into an unstable embarrassment simply because guilt became inconvenient to carry.

Something cold settled permanently inside Sophia then.

Not rage anymore.

Colder than rage.

Understanding.

Her eyes drifted to his throat.

The pulse there moved softly beneath skin.

Vulnerable.
Defenseless.

A pillow would work.

The thought arrived with horrifying calm.

Not fantasy.
Not emotional violence.

Practicality.

Mathew shifted slightly in sleep and pulled her closer unconsciously, his face brushing briefly against her shoulder.

Sophia nearly flinched.

Instead she stayed perfectly still until his breathing deepened again.

Then slowly, carefully, she lifted his arm away and slid from the bed.

“Good morning, wifey,” he said, voice thick with pride. He pulled her against his chest and kissed her forehead.

Sophia smiled shyly, tracing a finger down his chest.

“Last night was… incredible,” she whispered, voice husky with feigned satisfaction. “You were so good. I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Mathew chuckled, chest puffing out with masculine satisfaction even though his memory was blank.

“I knew you’d like that,” he said smugly, kissing her neck. “I told you I’d make it perfect for you.”

Sophia continued the performance — blushing, praising him — while inside she felt only cold detachment. Mathew believed every word, basking in his own imagined prowess.
—

The bathroom smelled faintly of expensive soap, wine, and sex.

Sophia stood before the mirror in silence.

The woman staring back looked ruined beautifully.

Lipstick smeared faintly near the corners of her mouth.
Mascara shadowed beneath tired eyes.
The wine-colored saree hung loose around her body, pleats softened from sleep.

Red marks darkened her knees.

Her hair looked wrecked entirely, jasmine flowers crushed into pale bruises tangled through black curls.

For several seconds she simply stared.

Not because she looked feminine anymore.

That part no longer shocked her.

Because she looked convincing.

The role had stopped feeling temporary somewhere along the way.

Mathew’s wife.
Sara’s mother.
Political salvation.
Beautiful widow replacement.

Sophia touched the gold minnu resting against her throat.

Cold.

Real.

Her breathing changed slightly.

Disgust moved slowly beneath her skin.

Not from the sex.
Not from Mathew touching her.

From how easily she had almost disappeared inside the performance completely.

—

The drive back through Kochi unfolded beneath harsh late-morning sunlight.

Mathew talked comfortably while navigating traffic one-handed.

Meetings.
Party strategy.
Church schedules.
Sara wanting to visit the aquarium next weekend.

Ordinary things.

Domestic things.

Every few minutes he reached across the console absentmindedly to touch Sophia’s thigh while speaking.

Each touch felt unbearable now.

Not because she wanted him.

Because she no longer did.

And still her body responded automatically:
soft smile,
relaxed shoulders,
gentle eye contact.

Performance had become instinct.

That realization hollowed her out.

When the SUV finally stopped outside Rachel’s apartment building, Mathew leaned across the console and kissed her forehead lightly.

“I’ll call you later.”

Sophia smiled softly.

“Okay.”

The lie arrived effortlessly.

Mathew drove away still smiling.

Sophia stood motionless on the sidewalk until the SUV disappeared entirely from view.

Then her face emptied all at once.

—

Rachel opened the apartment door before Sophia knocked properly.

One look at her expression and something shifted immediately.

Not concern.

Recognition.

Rachel stepped aside silently.

Sophia entered without speaking and removed her heels slowly near the doorway. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and detergent. Morning sunlight stretched warmly across tiled floors.

Normal life.

It felt obscene suddenly.

Rachel followed her quietly into the living room.

“What happened?”

“You look exhausted,” Rachel said, voice tight with jealousy. “Did he touch you again?”

Sophia didn’t answer with words. Instead, she dropped to her knees right there in the hallway, pressing her forehead against Rachel’s thigh.

“I drugged him,” she whispered. “Both of us. I couldn’t let him have me again. I only want you.”

Rachel’s breath hitched. She cupped Sophia’s chin, tilting her face up.

“Say it properly.”

“I belong to you,” Sophia said, voice trembling with need. “Only you.”

Rachel’s eyes darkened with possessive hunger and love. She pulled Sophia up and kissed her fiercely, then led her to the bedroom.

---

Rachel undressed Sophia slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of skin she revealed. When Sophia was completely naked, Rachel guided her onto the bed and tied her wrists to the headboard with soft black silk ropes —so that Sophia felt deliciously helpless.

“You are mine now,” Rachel whispered, climbing over her. “Not his. Never his again.”

She fetched the special harness — thick, realistic, and curved perfectly. Rachel took her time buckling it on, letting Sophia watch every movement. Then she climbed back onto the bed, slicking the dildo generously with oil.

Sophia’s breathing quickened as Rachel settled between her spread thighs.

“Look at me,” Rachel commanded softly.

Their eyes locked as Rachel pressed the thick head against Sophia’s entrance and pushed in slowly, inch by inch. Sophia gasped at the fullness, back arching off the bed. Rachel moved with tender control — deep, rolling thrusts that filled her completely, grinding against her clit with every stroke.

“You feel that?” Rachel murmured, leaning down to kiss her. “This is how I claim you. This is how I love you.”

The rhythm built gradually — slow and sensual at first, then deeper, more possessive. Rachel’s hands roamed everywhere — cupping Sophia’s breasts, pinching her nipples, stroking her throat. She kissed her constantly — deep, claiming kisses that stole Sophia’s breath.

Sophia moaned helplessly, wrists pulling against the silk ties.

“I’m yours,” she gasped between thrusts. “Only yours, Rachel.”

Rachel’s pace quickened, one hand slipping between them to circle Sophia’s clit while she fucked her. The dual sensation pushed Sophia over the edge hard — she came with a broken cry, body shaking, inner walls clenching around the dildo.

Rachel didn’t stop. She fucked her through the orgasm and into another, gentler one, whispering praises the entire time.

When Rachel finally came, hips stuttering, she buried her face in Sophia’s neck and moaned her name like a prayer.

---

Rachel untied her immediately and pulled Sophia into her arms, holding her tightly against her chest. She kissed her forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and lips with infinite tenderness.

“My beautiful girl,” Rachel whispered, stroking her hair. “You did so well. You’re so strong.”

She fetched warm coconut oil and spent nearly an hour massaging every inch of Sophia’s body — her wrists where the ropes had been, her breasts, her stomach, between her thighs — soothing and worshipping with gentle hands and softer kisses.

They lay tangled together under a light sheet, skin to skin.

“I can’t keep pretending with him,” Sophia whispered.

“You won’t have to for long,” Rachel replied, voice dark with promise. “We’ll give him poetic justice”

They talked for a long time — planning, dreaming, healing.

------------------------------

Chapter 34 — The Night Sophia Finally Chose

The gold saree felt heavier every week.

Not physically.

Psychologically.

Each fold of silk carried expectation now:
wife,
mother,
public redemption,
political grace.

Sophia stood before the bedroom mirror while Rachel adjusted the pleats in silence behind her.

The apartment had grown quieter lately.

Not hostile.

Careful.

Rachel watched Sophia constantly now, the way people watched candles too close to curtains.

“You’ve lost more weight,” Rachel said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” Rachel replied. “You’re vanishing.”

Sophia said nothing.

Because it was true.

Food tasted distant lately.
Sleep arrived only in fragments.
Makeup had become ritual armor hiding exhaustion beneath expensive softness.
Rachel and Sara were the only brightness in her life.
Even her body felt increasingly unreal.

Only revenge remained sharp.

Rachel pinned the saree carefully against Sophia’s shoulder.

Her fingers paused briefly.

“You don’t have to go today.”

“Yes, I do.”

“The church festival isn’t important.”

“It is to him.”

Rachel met Sophia’s eyes in the mirror then.

And understood immediately.

Every public appearance mattered now because Sophia was studying him.

Learning routines.
Weaknesses.
Patterns.

Murder had become structure.

—

The church festival grounds overflowed with people by late afternoon.

White shamianas stretched across the courtyard while devotional music crackled through loudspeakers distorted by humidity. Volunteers rushed between rows of plastic chairs carrying water crates and flower garlands.

And everywhere Sophia walked—

people smiled warmly at her.

Women touched her arm affectionately.
Priests blessed her.
Old aunties adjusted her saree proudly.

Mariya had died scandalized and whispered about.

Sophia moved through crowds like public absolution.

The cruelty of that nearly made her dizzy.

Mathew guided her through the gathering with one hand resting lightly against the small of her back.

Perfect husband.

Perfect wife.

Sophia had become frighteningly skilled at performing peace beside him.

At one point an elderly parish woman squeezed Sophia’s hands warmly.

“You brought light back into his life.”

Sophia smiled gently.

Inside, something recoiled violently.

If these people knew.

If any of them understood what kind of man stood smiling beneath church banners speaking softly about faith and healing.

Mathew moved naturally through the crowd shaking hands and accepting blessings while photographers captured everything constantly.

Sophia watched carefully now.

Not admiring anymore.

Studying.

Security positions.
Bodyguard rotation.
Vehicle spacing.
How often Mathew accepted drinks without caution.

The realization unsettled her privately.

Planning murder no longer felt emotional.

It felt administrative.

—

Later, during the fundraising dinner inside the parish hall, Mathew stood before a microphone discussing social responsibility.

Protecting women.
Family values.
Faith during difficult times.

The audience applauded repeatedly.

Sophia sat near the stage smiling beautifully while imagining driving the dinner knife through his throat.

Not dramatically.

Efficiently.

The thought arrived and faded with terrifying ease.

Mathew glanced toward her during the speech and smiled warmly before hundreds of people.

The audience followed his gaze instinctively.

Their expressions softened immediately.

And Sophia understood something horrifying then:

he had already woven her completely into his mythology.

The grieving widower healed by gentle love.

She almost laughed aloud.

—

Sara fell asleep against Sophia’s chest during the drive home.

The child smelled faintly of shampoo and chocolate.

One tiny hand remained tangled securely in Sophia’s saree pallu even while sleeping.

Mathew looked at them through the rearview mirror once and smiled softly.

“She trusts you more than anyone now.”

Sophia lowered her eyes immediately.

Guilt struck so sharply it nearly stole breath from her lungs.

Because Sara’s love was real.

Untouched by manipulation.
Untouched by revenge.

Sophia stroked the child’s hair carefully while city lights blurred past beyond the windows.

And for the first time since deciding to kill Mathew—

fear entered her properly.

Not fear of prison.
Not fear of blood.

Fear of Sara understanding someday.

—

The apartment felt dim and cool after midnight.
Rachel sat on the balcony floor wearing one of Sophia’s oversized T-shirts, smoking quietly while rain drifted through the city below.
She looked up immediately when Sophia entered
“How was church?”
Sophia removed her earrings slowly.
“He gave a speech about protecting women.”
Rachel barked out a humorless laugh.
Neither smiled afterward.
Sophia crossed toward the kitchen and poured herself water with visibly trembling hands.
Rachel watched carefully from the doorway.
“You’re scaring me.”
Sophia leaned against the counter silently.
Everything unrelated to revenge had started fading around the edges now:
music,
food,
sex,
sleep,
desire.

Only purpose remained intact.
Rachel approached slowly.
“What happens after he dies?”
Sophia stared into the glass in her hands.
Water trembled faintly near the rim.
“I don’t know.”

And for one brief moment uncertainty touched her properly.
Because revenge had become identity again.
Without it—
what remained?
Rachel touched her arm gently.
“You can still walk away.”
Sophia laughed softly.
Tired.
Hollow.

“No.”
The certainty returned instantly.
“He killed Mariya and survived beautifully.” Sophia looked out toward the rain-dark city beyond the balcony. “If I leave him alive, he wins twice.”
Rachel’s eyes filled suddenly.
“And if killing him destroys you too?”
Sophia looked at her quietly.
Then answered with terrifying honesty.
“I think Lucky’s already gone.”
But Sophia belongs to me.
Silence swallowed the apartment after that.
Rain moved softly through the darkness outside while Rachel stared at the woman standing before her.
Beautiful.
Exhausted.
Elegant.
And disappearing more completely each day.
—
Three days later
Across the room Mathew looked toward her and smiled warmly.
“What are you thinking about?”

Sophia met his eyes.
And smiled perfectly back.
“Our future.”

That night, Rachel came to the Joseph house under the pretext of helping Sophia organize old family documents for a memorial event. Mathew welcomed her warmly, grateful for the “support” his wife’s best friend provided during this busy period.

After dinner, Sophia prepared a special glass of warm milk for Mathew.

“A dentist friend of Rachel’s recommended this,” she said sweetly, handing him the glass. “It has a mild sedative to help you sleep deeply and improve your stamina. For your manliness.”

Mathew laughed, pleased by the idea, and drank the entire glass without suspicion. Within twenty minutes, the Twilight Anesthesia took hold — a powerful but safe combination that left him in a lucid, semi-conscious state. His body was heavy and obedient, his mind floating in a dreamy haze where everything felt like a vivid, half-remembered dream.

Sophia guided him to the master bedroom. “Go lie down, darling. Rest.”

Rachel waited in the guest bedroom until the house grew silent.

---

At 1:30 AM, Rachel slipped into the master bedroom like a shadow. Mathew lay on the bed, eyes half-open, breathing slow and deep, lost in the drugged dream state.

Rachel locked the door. Sophia stood near the wardrobe with a camera, recording everything in high definition.

Rachel approached the bed, wearing a black lace mask that covered the upper half of her face. She undressed Mathew completely, her hands firm and clinical. He murmured softly but did not resist — his drugged mind interpreting everything as an erotic dream.

“Such a good boy,” Rachel whispered, tying his wrists and ankles to the bedposts with soft ropes. “Tonight you serve your Mistress.”

Mathew moaned dreamily, already half-hard. “Yes… Mistress…”

Sophia recorded silently from the corner, her face expressionless.

Rachel began with sensual dominance — riding his face while he obediently licked her, tied and helpless. She then straddled him, riding his cock slowly, controlling every movement while he begged in his sleepy voice. Sophia captured every angle, every moan, every degrading plea.

They changed positions multiple times. Rachel made him worship her feet, then tied him on all fours like a dog while she flogged him lightly with a silk scarf. Mathew obeyed every command with hazy enthusiasm, lost in the dream.

For the final act, Rachel dressed him in Sophia’s lingerie — a black lace bra stretched across his chest, matching panties pulled down to his thighs, and a pair of stockings. Mathew giggled drunkenly in his dream state, calling Rachel “beautiful Mistress” and begging for more.

Rachel buckled on the large black dildo harness — thick, veined, and intimidating. She positioned herself behind him, pressing the tip against his entrance.

“Tell me what you want,” she commanded softly.

“Please… fuck me, Mistress,” Mathew slurred obediently, pushing back against her like an eager slut in his dream. “Make me yours…”

Rachel entered him slowly but firmly, fucking him with deep, powerful strokes while Sophia zoomed in on his face — eyes half-lidded in drugged pleasure, moaning and cheering her on:

“Yes… harder Mistress… I’m your whore…”

Rachel gripped his hips and took him thoroughly, the obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. Mathew came untouched, spilling into the lace panties with a broken, submissive cry.

Rachel pulled out, removed the harness, and patted his cheek.

“Good boy.”

---

They wiped every trace of evidence — untying him, cleaning his body, removing the lingerie, changing the sheets, and deleting all temporary files except the encrypted backup on a hidden drive. Sophia carefully returned everything to normal.

By morning, Mathew woke up groggy but satisfied, smiling at Sophia.

“I had the wildest dream last night,” he murmured, pulling her close. “Felt so real…”

Sophia kissed his forehead tenderly, hiding her cold smile.

“Must have been a good one,” she whispered.

Rachel left early, exchanging one last meaningful look with Sophia at the gate.

They now had everything they needed.

The blackmail material was devastating.

Mathew’s destruction was no longer just planned.

It was guaranteed.

------------------------------

Chapter 35 — Backwaters Again

Sophia stood in the living room, watching Sara carefully pack her small pink backpack with clothes, crayons, and her favorite stuffed rabbit. The little girl was excited about staying at Rachel aunty’s house for the weekend, completely unaware of the weight behind the decision.
“Are you sure about this?” Mathew asked, adjusting his watch. “We could take her with us. The estate has plenty of space.”
Sophia turned to him with a soft, loving smile — the same expression she had perfected over the past months.
“I insist,” she said gently, touching his arm. “This is our first proper weekend away since the wedding. I want it to be just us. Sara will be happier with Rachel. She always is.”
Rachel, who had come to pick Sara up, stood near the doorway with a calm, understanding expression. Only Sophia could see the sharp awareness in her eyes.
Sara ran over and hugged Sophia tightly. “Promise you’ll bring me something from the backwaters, Amma?”
Sophia’s heart clenched. She knelt down and kissed the top of Sara’s head, breathing in the familiar smell of coconut oil and childhood.
“I promise, my love. Be good for Rachel aunty.”
Sara nodded happily and took Rachel’s hand without hesitation.
As they watched Rachel’s car disappear down the driveway, Mathew slipped an arm around Sophia’s waist.
“You’re such a good mother,” he murmured, kissing her temple.
Sophia leaned into him, her face serene. Inside, her mind was ice-cold. This was necessary. Sara could not be anywhere near what was about to happen.

The ancestral estate lay deep in the Alappuzha backwaters, silent and watchful under the grey monsoon sky. Ancient wooden balconies overlooked black canals choked with mangroves. The same place where Mariya had died.

Sophia stepped out of the SUV and felt the damp air settle on her skin like a memory. Mathew came behind her, carrying their bags himself after sending all the staff away for the weekend.

“Just us,” he had told the caretaker earlier. “No one else. We want complete privacy.”

They began with tea on the upper veranda. The rain fell gently as they sat overlooking the water. Mathew poured her a cup with unusual tenderness.

“This place feels different with you here,” he said.

Sophia smiled, stirring sugar into her tea. “It feels like a beginning.”

Later, they changed into swimwear and slipped into the private pool behind the main house. The water was cool against the humid air. Mathew pulled her close, kissing her neck as they floated together.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured against her wet skin. “We should have another child. A son this time. Someone to carry the family name. Or a daughter… another little princess like Sara. What do you want?”

Sophia wrapped her legs around his waist in the water, playing the part perfectly.

“A son would be wonderful,” she whispered, kissing him softly. “But I’ll be happy with whatever God gives us. As long as it’s ours. Let's work on that tonight”

Mathew’s eyes shone with genuine hope. For a moment, Sophia almost pitied the man who still believed he deserved a future.

---

As evening approached, Sophia prepared her surprise.

She emerged from the bedroom wearing the exact bridal-style lingerie Mathew had once confessed he fantasized about — delicate white lace that hugged her breasts, a sheer babydoll that barely reached her thighs, and a thin garter belt. Her hair fell in soft waves, and she wore the jasmine perfume he loved.

The sheer babydoll was made of the finest translucent lace, clinging to her full breasts and narrow waist like a second skin. Intricate floral patterns barely covered her nipples, while the hemline ended just below the curve of her ass, revealing the matching white lace garter belt and sheer stockings that hugged her smooth thighs. A thin white satin ribbon tied at the front of the babydoll accentuated her cleavage, and the minnu — the sacred symbol of their marriage — rested heavily between her breasts, gleaming coldly against the wet fabric.

Mathew’s jaw dropped when he saw her.

“Sophia…” he breathed.

She had arranged a private dinner table on the wooden deck right beside the dark canal. Candles flickered inside glass lanterns. Rose petals were scattered across the tablecloth. No staff remained — the entire estate was empty except for the two of them.

They ate slowly. Mathew drank heavily — whiskey followed by wine. His hands grew bolder, sliding up her thigh under the table.

“I want you right here,” he slurred, eyes dark with lust. “Outside. Under the rain.”

Sophia smiled seductively and poured him another drink.

“As you wish, my love.”

---

But fate moved faster than his desire.

Mathew was already drunk and pulling her toward the deck railing when Sophia’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it once and felt a cold, satisfying calm settle over her.

The video had been released.

Rachel had sent the tape to every major news channel in Kerala.

Within minutes, the scandal exploded.

Mathew’s phone began ringing nonstop. He ignored it at first, too drunk and aroused to care. But when Sophia calmly turned her phone toward him and pressed play, his entire world shattered.

The video showed everything: Mathew tied up, wearing Sophia’s lingerie, calling some one “Mistress,” begging to be fucked, moaning like a whore while some one took him from behind with the large black dildo.

Mathew stared at the screen in horror, blood draining from his face.

“What… what the fuck is this?”

Sophia’s voice was calm, almost gentle.

“The whole country is watching this right now, Mathew.”

News alerts flooded both their phones. Headlines screamed:

**“Mathew Varghese Sex Scandal: Prominent Leader in BDSM Video with Unknown Woman”**

**“Double Life of the People’s Leader Exposed”**

Man-on-the-street interviews were already circulating:

An elderly woman outside a church spat on the ground. “Disgusting! He has such a beautiful, pious wife like Sophia, and this is what he does? God will punish him.”

A young man near MG Road laughed bitterly at the camera. “This is the man we trusted with our votes? Dressing like a woman and getting fucked? Shameless pig.”

A middle-aged mother shook her head in disgust. “Poor Sophia. That man doesn’t deserve her. He’s a pervert and a hypocrite.”

Mathew’s phone slipped from his trembling fingers and clattered onto the wooden deck. News alerts continued exploding across the screen as the scandal spread like wildfire. His face twisted in a mixture of drunken fury, confusion, and dawning horror.

“What the fuck is this?!” he roared, voice raw. “This is fake! Someone doctored the video! You set me up, you bitch!”

Sophia stood motionless a few feet away, rain soaking through her bridal lingerie. She had chosen it with cruel intention — a delicate, pure-white ensemble that looked like it belonged on a virgin bride on her wedding night.

She looked ethereal. Angelic.
And utterly devastating.

“After everything I gave you?!” he growled, spittle flying. “I made you my wife! I loved you! And this is how you repay me?!”

Sophia’s voice remained eerily soft and composed, almost tender.

“Yes, Mathew. I did this.I did this for Mariya”

He staggered forward, eyes blazing. “Mariya?! That cheating whore deserved what she got! She jumped because she was crazy!”

Sophia’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, but her face stayed calm. Inside, white-hot rage burned.

“And Lucky?” she asked quietly.

Mathew let out a ugly, drunken laugh. “That pathetic thief? He got drunk and fell into the water like the coward he was!”

Sophia stepped closer, the wet lace of her babydoll now completely transparent, outlining every curve of her body in the candlelight.

“I am Lucky,” she said.

The words hit him like a slap. Mathew’s face drained of color. He growled deep in his throat, a feral, desperate sound.

“You’re lying! You’re fucking insane! This isn’t possible!”

He lunged at her clumsily, but Sophia sidestepped with ease. Rain poured down harder, plastering the sheer white lingerie to her skin like wet silk.

“Please!” he suddenly begged, voice cracking as terror finally broke through the alcohol. “Sophia— whoever the fuck you are— don’t do this! I love you! I’ll give you everything! Money, power, the house, my position— just don’t!”

Sophia looked at him with cold, beautiful finality. The white bridal lingerie, now soaked and clinging to her like a shroud, made her look like both an angel of mercy and an angel of death.

“You took my sister from me,” she whispered. “You destroyed my life. And then you had the audacity to fall in love with what I became.”

Mathew’s eyes widened in pure panic. “No— no, please! I’m sorry! I’ll do anything! Don’t—!”

Sophia placed both hands on his chest.

She pushed him hard.

Mathew fell backward with a terrified scream, crashing into the black water. He surfaced desperately, thrashing and gasping.

“Help me! Sophia! Please! I’m begging you! I’ll change— I swear— don’t let me die like this!”

The water churned violently around him.

A crocodile struck.

Then another.

His screams tore through the night — raw, animal, broken — as powerful jaws clamped onto his limbs and dragged him under. Blood bloomed across the dark surface.

Sophia stood at the edge of the deck in her ruined white bridal lingerie, rain streaming down her face, watching with icy calm as the man who had destroyed her entire world disappeared beneath the same black water that had once taken her sister.

Before the last bubbles vanished, she blew him a soft, graceful flying kiss.

“Good night, my love.”

---

The story exploded across Kerala and the entire nation within hours.

It became *the* story of the month — played on loop across every news channel, debated in prime-time shows, and shared endlessly on social media. The official narrative, carefully shaped by the police report and Sophia’s quiet statements, was crystal clear:

Mathew Varghese, tormented by guilt after his explicit BDSM sex tape leaked, had sent all estate workers away to be alone with his shame. Realizing the video would destroy his reputation, career, and family name forever, he had jumped into the same backwaters where his first wife Mariya had died years earlier — and taken his own life.

News channels ran relentless montages: clips of the sex tape (heavily censored but still devastating), intercut with footage of his mangled body being pulled from the canal, his famous charity programs feeding flood victims, church inaugurations, and smiling family photographs. The contrast was brutal and irresistible.

In death, Mariya was reborn as a saint.

Old photographs of her surfaced everywhere — gentle, soft-eyed, holding baby Sara, helping at parish events. Commentators now painted her as a tragic, devoted wife who had discovered her husband’s depraved double life and, unable to bear this, had taken her own life in those same backwaters. The public narrative shifted completely: Mariya had not been unstable or alcoholic. She had been a silent victim who chose death over living with Mathew’s perversion.
---
Thousands attended Mathew Varghese’s funeral. The church courtyard overflowed with politicians, bishops, party workers, and ordinary citizens. But all cameras were fixed on one person.
Sophia.
She wore a simple, pure white cotton saree with a thin black border — the perfect image of mourning. No heavy jewelry except the sacred minnu resting against her throat. Her eyes were red and swollen from genuine-looking tears. The cameras loved her. They zoomed in relentlessly on her trembling lips, the single tear that slipped down her cheek as she placed flowers on the coffin, and the way she held little Sara protectively against her chest while the child cried for her father.
Every frame painted her as the ideal widow — graceful, dignified, heartbroken, yet strong.
During the funeral service, Sophia stood beside the coffin with quiet composure while priests praised Mathew’s “public service” and “family values.” When it was her turn to speak, her voice cracked beautifully:
“He was a complicated man… but I loved him. I will continue his work for the church and the people. For Sara. For all of us.”
The entire gathering was moved. Women wiped their eyes. Older men nodded with deep respect.

---

In the weeks that followed, Sophia became untouchable.

She gave carefully crafted interviews, crying at the right moments while speaking about forgiveness, healing, and continuing Mathew’s charitable legacy. Her poise under unimaginable tragedy won hearts everywhere.

“Even after losing her husband, she stands tall for her daughter,” one anchor said emotionally.

Mathew’s constituency adored her almost immediately. Women trusted her instinctively — seeing in her a fellow survivor of a flawed man. Older voters pitied the young, beautiful widow who had endured so much. Party leaders, sensing an opportunity, began approaching her quietly.

A month later, Sophia Joseph contested the by-election as the candidate from Mathew’s constituency.

She won by a landslide.

---

The cameras loved her even more now.

Sophia, the grieving widow turned people’s leader. The woman who had lost everything but still chose service. The saint who replaced the sinner.

Only Rachel knew the full truth.

And in the quiet nights, when Sara was asleep and the house was still, Sophia would sometimes stand on the balcony overlooking the distant backwaters, wearing nothing but one of Rachel’s shirts, and whisper into the darkness:

“It’s done, Mariya. It’s finally done.”

---

The End

Epilogue

Epilogue
Politics suited Sophia disturbingly well.
Election victories came easily after that.
Rachel moved into Sophia's house to support the friend who was just widowed.
Posters spread across Kochi:
Sophia smiling gently beside slogans about integrity and renewal.
Rachel secretly saved every newspaper clipping.
Sophia pretended not to notice.
—
Laughter returned first.
Then music.
Then ordinary arguments.
Then peace.
Sara grew taller and sharper with age.
She inherited Mathew’s stubbornness and Mariya’s eyes.
Sometimes Sophia caught herself staring at her too long across dinner tables.
Wondering what survived through blood.
What repeated through generations whether invited or not.
One rainy Sunday morning, many years after the funeral, the house remained unusually quiet.
No meetings.
No staff downstairs yet.
No school.
Soft sunlight filtered through pale curtains while ceiling fans hummed lazily overhead.
Rachel lay tangled beside Sophia beneath white sheets, hair scattered across the pillow in dark waves. One of Sophia’s old cotton sarees hung from the chair nearby.
Sophia brushed sleepy fingers gently against Rachel’s cheek.
Rachel smiled without opening her eyes.
“You’re staring again.”
“You’re getting wrinkles.”
Rachel finally opened one eye.
“And yet you still look obsessed with me.”
Sophia laughed softly.
The sound felt private now.
Safe.
Rachel pulled her downward into a slow kiss tasting faintly of coffee and sleep.
No desperation anymore.
No fear of losing each other.
Just familiarity softened by years.
Sophia kissed her again, deeper this time, fingers slipping gently into Rachel’s hair while morning light warmed the bed around them.
Then loud pounding exploded against the bedroom door.
“Amma!”
Both women froze instantly.
Another bang.
“Amma! Rachel aunty! I’m starving!”
Rachel groaned dramatically into the pillow.
Sophia burst into helpless laughter.
Outside the door Sara continued knocking impatiently.
“I know you’re awake!”
Rachel grabbed blindly for the bedsheet.
“This child destroys romance like government censorship.Wait till i fuck you with my little friend tonight”
Sophia laughed harder.
And for one small moment everything felt absurdly ordinary:
messy sheets,
warm sunlight,
Rachel’s annoyed voice,
Sara threatening violence over breakfast.
Domestic chaos.
Domestic peace.
Sophia looked toward the bright morning beyond the curtains while laughter still lingered softly between them.
Years ago she had believed revenge would end her story.
Instead life had continued afterward anyway.
Messy.
Tender.
Unfinished.
And somewhere beyond the city, beyond politics and memory and grief, the backwaters moved quietly beneath morning light as though nothing terrible had ever happened there at all.