Chapter 8

Nitin Narrates:

It had been almost two weeks since Komal moved into Rahul sir’s suite; almost two weeks since it was announced that Rahul sir would be our new CEO - the one who picks the next General Manager of Hotel Sapphire.

That day ... the day of the announcement ... it was supposed to go quite differently. Komal and I had decided that she would break up with Rahul sir that day. And that we would finally be able to get back to our old lives, prioritize our marriage over our careers. That we’d put all this nonsense about her pretending to be Rahul sir’s girlfriend, behind us.

But it was not to be!

Ultimately, I was the one who asked her ... no ... begged her NOT to break up with Rahul sir, and she reluctantly agreed.

In that moment, all I could think of was the chance to finally get the coveted GM role, and to show my father that I was worthy of his respect.

I did not fully realize then, what my request would lead to. I wanted Komal to help influence Rahul sir, so that he would consider me for the GM role.

And most importantly, keep that jerk Patil away from it!

And now, two weeks later, I was slowly beginning to realize the repercussions.

I hardly got to see Komal these days, and when we did talk, it was over text or very brief phone calls. Rahul sir had her wrapped around his little finger, and she seemed to be enjoying every second of it.

We did get to spend some time together during her shifts, but since Tina was pretty much always around, we had to keep it professional.

On the rare occasions that Komal and I did get a moment alone, I got glimpses into what her life was like now.

“Where were you yesterday?” I asked her, trying to keep my voice steady, and not sound like a husband begging for a crumb of her life. “You and Rahul sir left early in the morning, and you didn’t come back until late at night?”

Komal and I were at the front desk, updating guest details in the system.

She looked up from the computer screen, and for a second, a flicker of guilt crossed her face. “Oh, that. We were in Goa.”

“Goa?!” The word shot out of my mouth before I could stop it. “How ... how is that possible ... you were back on the same day?!”

Komal smiled, a small, dreamy smile. “Well, you know how he is ... if he wants something, the world just ... rearranges itself.” Her fingers traced the polished wood of the front desk. “We took his private jet. We were there in two hours. And then a helicopter took us right to his yacht, moored off a private beach. We spent the whole day there.” The excitement in her eyes was unmistakable.

My stomach turned. Goa. Our Goa. Our Honeymoon. The place where I had saved for six months to book us a ‘deluxe’ room at a crowded beachside resort. The place where we had traveled in a fucking train for 36 hours. The place where I had been so proud to bargain with a taxi driver for a fair price to the beach.

“It was funny, actually,” she continued, her voice soft with memory, completely oblivious to the daggers she was twisting in my heart. “It made me think of our honeymoon.”

I held my breath.

“Remember the AC in our hotel room had stopped working? It was so hot and sticky that night, Nutty!” Komal chuckled. “We were so miserable, just lying on top of the sheets, trying not to touch each other because we were sweating so much.”

“Not such a great way to spend our honeymoon, huh?” I said, forcing a laugh.

“Yeah, that was rough.” Komal said, her smile fading as she stared into the distance.

“I am guessing the yacht was much better?”

“Oh Nutty, the yacht was out of this world!” Komal’s eyes sparkled as she spoke. “It was like a floating palace! Rahul had the chef ... yes there was a private chef on the yacht, just for us ... he had him fry us fresh prawns in garlic butter. And the champagne was chilled to perfection. And the sheets were just so soft, we...” Komal suddenly stopped, perhaps realizing the way her words were cutting me.

“I am sorry Nutty, I didn’t mean to compare our honeymoon to...” she said, her voice softening. “The time you and I had was special ... obviously! It’s just that with Rahul ... it’s different. You get it, right?”

“Yes, of course Komal, don’t worry ... I didn’t feel bad.” I lied.

“Okay good! So anyway, that’s where we were yesterday ... Goa. It was beautiful, Nutty!”

“I am glad you enjoyed yourself Komal. Did you visit any of the beaches we went to?”

“Ummmm ... we didn’t really leave the yacht, actually. Rahul and I were ... busy.” Komal’s cheeks flushed, and she bit her lower lip, her eyes darting away from mine.

“Oh, right. Busy.” I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “What ... uh ... were you ... doing?”

Komal gave me a look. “Are you sure you want to hear about it?”

I knew what that question really meant. Komal was asking me if I wanted us to go back to how things were before, when she would tell me every dirty detail of her time with Rahul. It seemed like she was asking me if I really wanted that final nail in our relationship’s coffin.

“Yes,” I said. “Tell me...”

“Well, maybe it’s easier to just ... show you?”

Komal took out her phone and scrolled to her gallery. My breath caught in my throat as she handed it to me.

The first photo was of her and Rahul sir, sprawled on the deck of the yacht, their bodies glistening with some sort of oil.

Komal was wearing a white bikini, a scrap of fabric so small it was an insult to the word. It barely covered her full, round breasts, the creamy flesh swelling at the edges. The bottoms were nothing but strings, and as she posed, I could see the gentle curve of her stomach leading down to the promised land I thought was only mine. She looked like a goddess, a goddess being offered up to a god who wasn’t her husband.

Rahul sir was shirtless, his muscular chest on full display. He was pressed up against her, his hand gripping her bare waist possessively. His other hand held a champagne flute.

Sitting next to each other like that, they looked like a fucking magazine cover.

Fuck my life.

I couldn’t help but scroll through the photos, my stomach twisting with a mix of jealousy and sick fascination.

There were more elegant shots of them lounging on the deck, Komal’s bikini barely containing her full breasts and their hands in suggestive places.

And then, suddenly, I hit a series of photos that made my blood run cold.

Komal was topless, her bikini top discarded, her full, round breasts exposed to the camera. A long necklace, made of what looked like tiny seashells, dangled between them, catching the sunlight. She was stretched out on her side, one hand supporting her weight and the other resting on her hip. Rahul sir was right behind her, also stretched out, his elbow bent under him for support. Komal’s head was turned back just enough for him to kiss her deeply.

I stared at the photo, my mouth agape. The shock of seeing her like this was overwhelming, but then a more pressing question dawned on me.

“Who ... who was taking these photos, Komal?”

She smiled, her eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and innocence. “The crew, silly! Apart from me and Rahul, there was the captain, a chef, and two crew members.”

“So they ... the crew ... they all saw you like this?”

“Well, yeah,” she replied, her voice casual and detached. “But it’s not weird or anything, Nutty. It’s their job to serve the guests. I’m sure mine aren’t the first pair of boobs they’ve seen.”

Komal said it with such nonchalance that it made my stomach twist.

I don’t know why, but my brain flashed back to the very first Karva Chauth I spent with her, back in my village. She was adorned in a traditional sari, having fasted all day and prayed for my health and well-being. Her eyes were filled with devotion, her hands adorned with henna, her heart pure.

The contrast between that innocent, loving wife and the one in the photo, topless and kissing another man, was a chasm too wide to bear.

But I knew the truth. I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for the state of things. I drove her into Rahul sir’s arms, and then, when she tried to get away, I pushed her right back. And the result was evident in my hands.

I scrolled to the next photo, and my eyes burned with the sight of her bare tits pressed against Rahul’s chest. She was kissing him deeply, her arms around his neck, one hand holding a half-filled champagne glass like a trophy.

I swiped to see a series of photos, all of her kissing Rahul sir on his lips, her eyes in a daze as the level of champagne in her glass kept lowering.

And then, suddenly, there was a video clip.

My thumb hovered over the play button. I looked over at Komal, and she was looking at me with her big beautiful eyes, as if trying to figure out what I would do next.

I clicked play, my heart beating faster. I had to know. I had to see the truth for myself, even if it destroyed me.

It was a selfie video, being taken by Rahul sir, his arm stretched out. Komal was standing in front of him, her back snugly pressed against his chest. They were at the yacht’s railing, the endless blue ocean behind them, the breeze playing with her loose hair. She was still topless, but one of her breasts was covered by Rahul sir’s large, possessive grip.

Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth gaping in a silent ‘O’ of pure pleasure. And then I saw it. His hips. He was pushing into her from behind in small, deliberate jerky motions. Every time he did, her body would lurch, her breasts jiggling with the impact, and a small, helpless gasp would escape her lips. It wasn’t the gasp of pain; it was the gasp of a woman being thoroughly, deliciously fucked by a man who knew how to handle her.

He was FUCKING her! Right there, in the open air, on the deck of a yacht, while he filmed it. This wasn’t just a memory; it was a fucking home sex video ... and she had saved it on her phone.