Chapter 1: Enchanted 🌶️

The rain hammered the windows of Siddharth’s silent apartment, a relentless drumbeat that matched the hollow thud in his chest. Three years. Three years of stale air, of untouched pillows on the other side of the bed, of waking up with his cock hard and his pyjamas stained, a ghost of a touch evaporating with the dawn. His parents’ voices—you must move on, find someone, live—were just echoes in a fog.

He was contemplating on everything going on his life when a sharp knock pulled him from the couch. He got up and opened the door.

His world stopped.

She stood there, drenched. The thin cotton of her salwar kameez was plastered to her body like a second skin. Every curve was a revelation. The fabric clung to the heavy, round swell of her boobs, the nipples tight and visible against the wet cloth. It followed the dip of her waist, the generous flare of her hips, the thick, meaty thighs that led his eyes down. Water dripped from the dark waves at her forehead, tracing a path down her neck, between the valley of her breasts.

Minakshi. His to-be-bride candidate, whom his parents introduced him to.

Siddharth’s mouth went dry. His cock, which had known only phantom hands for years, surged to life, a thick, painful heat pressing against his trousers. He stared, his breath shallow.

“Siddharth ji, mujhe bahut thand lag rahi hai,” Minakshi whispered, her teeth chattering. [Siddharth, I feel very cold.]

The sound of her voice, soft and shivering, broke his trance. He cleared his throat, a rough, unused sound. “A-Aa jaiye. Please.” [Come in. Please.]

He stepped aside, his eyes never leaving her as she hurried in, leaving puddles on the floor. The scent of rain and something else—something warm, like jasmine and skin—filled the hallway.

“You should change. You’ll fall sick,” he managed to say, his voice tight. He pointed down the hall. “There’s a closet. My ... my first wife’s things are in there. Use whatever fits.”

Minakshi gave him a grateful, shy nod and padded down the hall. her hips swaying with every step she took. Siddharth stayed rooted, the image of her soaked body burned into the back of his eyelids. He adjusted himself, the fabric of his pants straining. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

In the bedroom, Minakshi opened the carved wooden closet. A faint scent of sandalwood and forgotten perfume drifted out. Rows of silk, chiffon, georgette, and cotton sarees hung like dormant rainbows. Neat stacks of floral bras, cotton panties, and scraps of lace that made her blush looked up at her. Her fingers trailed over the fabrics.

Then she saw it.

A saree of deep, blood-red satin silk. It seemed to drink the dim light from the window. Outside, thunder cracked, a brilliant fork of lightning illuminating the room for a split second. The flash fell on the large framed portrait on the wall—Siddharth’s late wife, serene, beautiful, her eyes seeming to follow Minakshi.

“Wow. Kitni sexy thi,” Minakshi breathed, feeling a strange pull toward the portrait. She smiled, a little defiantly. “Aap bahut sundar thi. Par ab main Siddharth ji ki biwi banungi.” [Wow. she was quite sexy.] [You were very beautiful. But now I will be Siddharth’s wife.]

She turned around and reached for the red saree, which caught her attention before.

The moment her fingertips made contact, a jolt—like static, but warmer, more invasive—shot up her arm. The silk moved. It slithered over her hand, wrapping her wrist in a cool, firm grip.

“What the fuck!” Minakshi gasped, trying to pull back.

It was too late. The saree unspooled from its shelf in a fluid, impossible motion. It wrapped around her other arm, then her torso, cinching tight. She stumbled, a cry caught in her throat as the fabric coiled around her legs, binding her. It glowed with a faint, unholy light.

A voice, smooth as the silk and cold as the grave, filled her head. “You will replace me?”

Minakshi struggled, panic a sharp taste on her tongue. “Let me go!”

“Hah. As if you can. I will replace you instead,” the voice whispered, and it was her own voice, but twisted, hungry. The light pulsed. It wasn’t just around her; it was in her, seeping into her mind, her thoughts, her desires. Images flashed—Siddharth’s lonely face, his hard body, the thick bulge in his trousers she’d just seen. A wave of heat, so intense it was pain, bloomed between her legs.