Day two kicked off with that relentless monsoon beat—rain smacking the window like it had something to prove. Rimi’s place always smelled like jasmine, and the hum of the AC was weirdly comforting. I blinked awake, confused for a hot second, until I caught the scent, heard the drone, and remembered I was not in my own bed.

Rimi was curled up right next to me, her arm slung over my breasts, all cozy and casual, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I remembered how last night had gone sideways... in a good way. After we’d gotten real with each other, Rimi just grinned and told me I could have the guest room. But as soon as I started getting ready for bed, there was Rimi, leaning in the doorway with that look.

“Why waste good energy on a lonely bed, Mishti (Sweetheart)? Come here.” And honestly, who could say no to that?

So, there we were, snuggled up. At first, it was just nice, having someone there, not feeling like I was going to explode from all this pent-up anticipation. But then Rimi started tracing lazy little patterns on my back...light at first, then a bit more focused, her palm gliding down to the curve of my hip, then lower. Not pushy, not demanding, just this slow, steady touch that made my skin buzz. It was not even about sex, not really.

More like… Rimi was unlocking parts of me, physically and otherwise, that had been jammed shut forever. When Rimi finally brushed my inner thigh, I actually gasped.

I felt like a wire strung too tight, vibrating in this weird, delicious way I had almost forgotten was possible. The intention was not sexual in the way I knew it, but rather a profound physical preparation, a loosening of knots, and a warming up that transcended mere physical arousal. By the time I finally drifted to sleep, I was a vessel vibrating with a low, delicious hum.

The next morning, Rimi flung the curtains open, sunlight sneaking in. “Up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty! Today, we prepare the temple.” Rimi sounded way too chipper for someone who had barely slept, but that was just her.

I stretched, every muscle loose and heavy, like my bones had been replaced with warm honey. Rimi’s touch lingered...a phantom sensation that made me smile, against my better judgment. Ronnie, my husband, was probably already at his desk, thinking I was in Darjeeling for a friend’s wedding. The lie was smooth, almost elegant, and it fit me so well I barely noticed it anymore.

Rimi led me into the inner sanctum...some kind of spa room she usually saved for her VIPs. The air was thick with the scent of lemongrass and rose, music trickling in from somewhere invisible. “No freebies today, Alta. Think of this as an investment in your freedom,” Rimi teased. I just grinned. I would have paid anything for what came next.

The next few hours? They were pure, unfiltered indulgence. Everything I had been denying myself for years. First, the full body massage...hands kneading away knots I did not even know I had, making my toes curl. Scented water showered over me, washing away a decade’s worth of stress. Then came the hair spa, with thick conditioner soaking into my roots, leaving my hair bouncy and soft, like something from a shampoo commercial.

Waxing...ugh, that was another story. Rimi worked with this weird, almost religious focus, making sure every inch was smooth. It stung, sure, but the pain was weirdly cleansing, each patch ripped away leaving me lighter, freer. When Rimi got to, well, my most private parts, I blushed so hard I thought I would burst into flames.

But Rimi did not flinch, did not make it weird. Just handled it, professional as ever. By the end, I felt like I had shed an old skin. I looked down and barely recognized myself...smooth, sensitive, and, yeah, kind of exposed but in a good way.

Evening crept in. Rimi stood back, surveying her handiwork like a proud artist. I was wrapped in a backless silk robe, staring at myself in the full-length mirror. My skin was glowing, hair falling in waves, and eyes brighter than I had seen in years. For a second, I caught my own gaze and saw someone new looking back.

“See?” Rimi whispered, appearing behind me, her eyes warm. “This is not about William. This is about her.” Rimi nodded at my reflection. “The woman who’s been hiding, waiting to come out and play.”

The moment got broken by Rimi’s phone chiming. “Your ride’s here, Alta.”

My heart hammered so loud I thought Rimi might hear it. I had a mixed feeling of terror and excitement. I was already braless and now wore no panties, which made me feel reckless and more alive. I tightened the robe, but honestly, it was pointless—I had already stripped off every layer that mattered.

Rimi handed me a tiny vial of perfume. “Dab it behind your ears. Trust me, it is magic. Men forget their own names.”

I just nodded, my pulse racing. Ready? Maybe. Maybe not. But I stepped out into the sticky Kolkata night, climbed into that waiting cab, and left behind the old Mrs. Alta Bose—the tired woman who clocked in at the call center, who lived by everyone else’s rules. Tonight, I was someone else—someone who had finally decided to answer her own damn call. The driver closed the door, and the car pulled away, carrying me towards a destiny written in whispers and illicit desires.

The Imperial Hotel loomed, a grand, imposing structure that seemed to sigh with old money and hushed secrets. The cab pulled up to the ornate entrance, and I felt a nervous flutter deep in my stomach. This was it. The moment I had been preparing for, physically and mentally, for days. The doorman, a man in a crisp uniform, opened the door, and I stepped out into a lobby that smelled of polished wood and expensive perfume, a stark contrast to the familiar scent of my own home.

My eyes scanned the opulent space, my heart thrumming. And then I saw him. William Saxton. He was standing near a large potted palm, taller than I had imagined, with a relaxed confidence that was immediately apparent. He was not in a suit, but a well-fitted dark shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders, and his silvering hair was impeccably styled. He looked exactly as he had in the bank photo, yet infinitely more potent in person.

As our eyes met, a slow, captivating smile spread across his face, and he began to walk towards me, his gaze never leaving mine. It was a gaze that was both charming and profoundly knowing, as if he could see the woman Rimi had helped me become.

"Alta," he said, his voice a low rumble, richer and even more captivating than it had been over the phone. He reached me, taking my hand in his. His touch was warm, firm, and sent a shiver through me. "It's an absolute pleasure to finally meet you in person."

"William," I managed, my voice a little breathless.

“Please,” he cut in, voice low and soft, thumb tracing these lazy circles on the back of my hand. “Call me Bill.”

Man, that just—yeah, it got to me. There’s something about someone skipping the formalities and asking for familiarity right out the gate that kind of scrambles your brain. I felt my face heating up (God, I hoped he didn’t notice), but he just held my gaze, like he was daring me to look away. He was even more dangerous up close, honestly. Like, if charm was a superpower, this guy was basically a Marvel villain. But still he is my CaptainAmerica.

Next thing I know, Bill’s arms are around me—no half-hearted, awkward side hug, either. He just wrapped me up, all warmth and solid muscle, and that cologne—whatever he was wearing, it probably cost more than my rent, but it worked. It was the kind of hug that makes you forget the outside world even exists. I squeezed him back, probably a little too tight, but I couldn’t help it. For a second, I actually felt like I belonged right there. Like, whoa, maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like when the emotional stuff finally lines up with the physical.

I kind of just let my head rest on his shoulder, eyes closed, soaking it in. Maybe a beat too long. So sue me.

He led me over to the restaurant, all posh and candlelit, silverware clinking, the whole nine yards. Dinner felt like this wild, flirtatious duel—our old WhatUp chats but dialed up to eleven. Bill did not just listen; he zoned in like I was the only person on the planet. Kept asking me questions, pulling stories out of me, making me laugh for real. Not that fake “I totally care about your car insurance” laugh I use at work.

He told stories too—about travel, art, and his whole mysterious, high-end lone-wolf routine. I ended up telling him stuff I had not even told Ronnie in ages. Stuff I barely admitted to myself. The air between us was basically humming, all this unspoken stuff crackling underneath.

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, things got… well, let us just say the table felt a little too small. His knee kept brushing mine, just enough to make my heart do weird things. And when he complimented me, it was not cheesy or rehearsed. It just landed, straight to the gut. I felt like I was glowing.

Then he leaned in, voice all gravel and heat, eyes locked on me with this look that said he was done pretending to be patient. “Alta,” he murmured, like it was our little secret, “I’ve been waiting for this. For you. Do not tell me you are going back to an empty room tonight.”

Just—pow. No subtlety. No tiptoeing around it. My stomach dropped and fluttered at the same time, if that is even possible. I flashed through every excuse, every little lie I had told to get here, and all the planning with Rimi. Everything was funneling down to this single, electric second.

And then—of course—my phone buzzes. The one I had shoved to the bottom of my purse and sworn to ignore.

The screen lights up; it is Ronnie.

His message pops up, all casual and sweet: “Have you reached Darjeeling safely? All good here. Take care.”

Talk about timing.

Oh, creative? Buckle up.

So, there I was, basking in this dreamy glow—Bill across the table, the air between us practically humming—and then my phone buzzed. It was Ronnie. My husband. With a text so utterly normal it could’ve come from a robot: “Hope you’re settling in. Love you.” Whiplash. Like, who invited reality to this party?

Boom! The sizzle in my veins? Gone. I was freezing, my heart doing somersaults into my stomach. The restaurant blured, all the gold lights and crystal stemware fading into the background, replaced by an unflattering mental snapshot of Ronnie in his holey socks, probably microwaving leftovers and thinking about tomorrow’s commute. Ugh. Suddenly, I felt like I had been caught shoplifting in a cathedral.

I peek at Bill. He is still locked in, waiting for me, handsome as ever. But the silence? Thick as clotted cream. My thoughts are just a tangle, desire wrestling with guilt. The word “vows” flashes through my brain like a neon warning sign, and I seriously consider faking food poisoning.

Instead, I just flash my phone at Bill.

“Husband,” I mouth, as if that explains the existential crisis I am having. He kind of half-smiled, maybe got it, maybe just thought I was weird.

Whatever. I mumbled about needing a bathroom break and escape.

The ladies’ room was ridiculous—marble, gold fixtures, and lighting softer than a Lana Del Rey chorus. I lean against the wall, sucking in air like I’d just run from the law.

My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop my phone as I send Ronnie a lie: “All good here. Just settled in. Sleep well.” The words taste like cardboard. I am sinking.

Out comes the big gun—Rimi. My ride-or-die, my chaos consultant. I called her, whispering into the phone like a kid with a stolen cookie. “Ronnie texted. Bill wants me to stay the night. What do I do?”

And Rimi, not missing a beat, goes, “Alta. Go to the mirror. Take your panties off.”

Like she is giving me the secret password to Narnia.

“Are you for real?” I hiss, but she is dead serious. “Just do it. And look at woman in the mirror and ask her what she wants.”

Okay, fine. I am in too deep for logic anyway. I unclasp the robe and slide off my panties. I felt another ‘something’ that had been binding me just broke off. I felt the cold air in my most sensitive areas.

I looked up and there I am, reflected back in this massive mirror. But it is not the usual me. This woman is glaring back in defiance… she is fierce, almost feral.

She has got that post-spa glow, sure, but her eyes are electric. She wants. She demands. She has done apologizing and done waiting for permission. I almost do not recognize her.

That’s it. Decision was made. No more hand-wringing. The wild part of me grabs the wheel.

Rimi’s still on the line, probably painting her nails or something. “Well?” she prompts.

“I know what I want,” I breathed, and it is like flipping on a light switch. The shame? Gone. Just heat and anticipation.

“Attagirl,” says Rimi, sounding like a fairy godmother who swears too much. “Go. The best adventures don’t come with GPS.”

I hung up, pulse racing. Ronnie and his little world shrink to a thumbnail in my brain. I realize—crap—I do not even have protection on me. The old me would have panicked. Tonight? It is just one more lock I am picking.

I stepped out of the bathroom, ready. No map, no net, but all the wild energy I needed. Let us see where this goes.

As, I stepped out of the bathroom, robe swishing around my bare skin, legs steady for once. Bill glanced up—could not read his face, but his eyes? Lit up like he had just won something. I felt this mad rush of confidence, like I could take on anything. Screw it, I was all in. I was about to spend the night with William, and yeah, I knew exactly what line I was crossing. Could not help but smile.

I slid back into my chair, making sure to hold his gaze. “I’ll stay,” I said, and man, my voice did not even shake.

Weirdly sure of myself. Bill grinned—slow, a little cocky, but I was not finished. “Oh, and since you’re here at the Imperial for two days, you better keep me interested.” I leaned in, voice dropping. “Unless you have got some other relationship manager or stockbroker lined up? Because honestly, I might just let you fend for yourself.”

Did I wink? Maybe. I probably did.

He just laughed. Like, really laughed—threw his head back; the whole restaurant probably heard. Not that he cared. He grabbed my hand, kissed my knuckles, and when his eyes met mine again, I could see it: relief, a hint of victory, and, well, the kind of heat that makes your stomach flip.

He stood and tugged me up with him, pulling me in for a hug that was a lot more serious than the one in the lobby. My hands bunched up in his shirt; he held me tight, all warm and solid. The smell of him—soap, maybe a bit of whiskey—hit me, and I just… yeah, this was happening. No more second-guessing.

Definitely no running.

Earlier, I bet he thought I might bail, like I would remember my “real life” and run for the hills. But standing there? Wrapped up in each other? Nah! We both knew what we were doing. No more pretending. Just two grown-ups, both saying yes to the same wild idea. The next part was obvious. He squeezed me, not too hard, and then let go just enough to lead me out. We walked past a couple of diners still nursing their drinks… It felt like everyone was watching, even if they were not… and straight to the elevators.

That was it: Day Two and Day Three, here we come. Or, well, here I come, literally and metaphorically.

The elevator ride up was weirdly quiet, with that soft hum that makes you feel like you are in a movie or something. Bill kept my hand in his, his thumb tracing these lazy circles. Seriously, who does that? But, God, it worked. Doors slid open to this ridiculously nice hallway—soft lights, thick carpet, the whole nine yards. He led me to the door at the end, and my heart was thumping so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Inside, his suite was huge, all sleek and quiet, with city lights outside like sequins someone just tossed across the sky. The air was cool and smelled expensive, and the bed? Massive. White sheets so crisp I almost felt guilty looking at them. I took a breath. This was really, actually happening.

He closed the door behind us with a soft click that somehow echoed in my chest. Turned to look at me, not rushed, just... drinking it all in. He said my name—softer now, none of that earlier banter, just raw and honest. “Alta. You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Cheesy? Maybe. But damn if it did not work.

He took my hand and pulled me close. I did not rush anything. His fingers found the collar of my robe, eased it apart, letting the silk slip away until it puddled at my feet. I stood there, naked, but not embarrassed— more like powerful and so, so exposed. His eyes ran over me, hungry and gentle at the same time, and for a second, it felt like he was touching me with just his gaze. Honestly? I had never felt more seen.

“Excellent,” he breathed out, the word rough and low, like he could barely get it out past the way he was looking at me.

Those hands… God, those hands… reached up and cradled my face, thumbs tracing slow along my jaw. He leaned forward, not pausing, not questioning… simply claimed my mouth as if he knew already that it was his for the taking. He weaved his other hand in my hair, fingers burrowing through the strands, tugging softly, claiming a tacit ownership as the kiss grew deeper. He toyed with it, twirling a strand around his finger then pulling softly on it, angling my head this way. "God, I adore your hair," he whispered against my mouth, his warm breath, "and your eyes."

This was not that tentative, near-apologetic stuff Ronnie had done. No, this was slow, deep, greedy—his lips flavored with wine and mint, pressing against mine like he had waited his entire life for this. I did not think at all; my lips just opened, famished, like something inside me stirred and determined it was about time to feed. His tongue touched mine. hot, sure, teasing. and my head felt a bit dizzy, as if I had drunk three glasses of champagne rather than one.

He broke the kiss, barely, forehead pressed against mine. “Come here,” he whispered, and the way he said it made me follow, like I did not have a choice. We tumbled onto the bed, sheets cool and soft under my back, but my skin was practically burning. He hovered over me, solid and heavy in all the right ways, and there it was...  the hard, undeniable proof of how much he wanted me, pressed against my thigh. That ache between my legs flared up, sharp and needy.

His mouth started a slow path down my neck, lingering just a second too long on that pulse point that always drove me wild. Lower now, and then his mouth found my breast, tongue circling around my nipple until I could not help the little gasp that escaped. His hands...  seriously, everywhere at once...  slid down my sides, over my hips, coaxing my legs apart like he owned them.

And when his fingers found me, slick and aching, I swear I nearly came undone right then. He explored, unhurried, like he had all night, and I could not keep still, writhing beneath him, desperate. My hands fumbled for his shirt buttons, clumsy with want. He laughed, quietly and darkly, then shrugged out of his clothes, baring a body that looked sculpted, not a spare inch anywhere.

Then he was back, chest pressed to mine, just enough roughness from his hair to set my nerves alight. He kissed me again, deeper this time, hips moving in a slow, relentless grind that promised everything. “Are you ready, Alta?” His voice, all gravel and heat, right at my lips.

He had travelled thousands of miles across oceans, mountains and time-zones, he came all this way just to be with me all because he heard my voice over the phone and had just seen one picture of me that impressed him. No, he was on top of me, he was taking advantage of me… God! I want him to take advantage of me and yes! Exploit me!

I could not trust myself to speak, just nodded, eyes wide and pleading. The ache was almost cruel now...  like if he did not do something soon, I might explode. He lined himself up, teasing, with just the tip pressing at my entrance. One slow, deliberate push, and he was inside me.

I made a sound...  I do not know what, something raw...  because it was so much, so good, not pain at all but this overwhelming sense of being filled, claimed, known. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in, needing him deeper.

He started to move, slow at first, almost all the way out, then back in, each thrust making my whole-body shudder.

I matched him, hips rising, lost in the rhythm, the sound of our breathing loud in my ears.

“Look at me, Alta.” His voice was like a command, and I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze...  hungry, wild, like he could see straight through me.

Something deep inside just snapped. The pleasure built, cresting higher and higher, until it crashed...  white-hot, shattering, a scream ripping out of me that I did not even care to hide. Every inch of me trembled, my body wrung out and boneless.

He followed, shuddering, groaning my name against my shoulder. We collapsed together, sweaty and tangled, hearts pounding like we had just run a marathon. For a while, we just lay there, not saying anything, letting the aftershocks fade.

“Alta…”, he said.

“Bill”, I acknowledged.

Eventually, he pulled a sheet over us, kissed my forehead, and pulled me close. He stroked my hair, and I swear I could have melted right into him. We were quiet, soaking it all in. Later, in the hush of the night, we started to talk...  not small talk, but the real stuff. He told me things...  about his lonely nights and the way, he had noticed me right from the start. I found myself saying things I’d never told anyone, secrets about my marriage, what I had been missing, and this new hunger I had not even known how to name.

There was no awkwardness, no shame. Just understanding. Sleep found us, eventually, tangled up together in a way that felt so different from all those lonely nights before. Waking up, tucked against his body, I felt… settled. Like I had finally come home and only just now realized I had been lost.

That was Day Two.

Day Three was waiting for us, wide open, full of promises and all the questions I was suddenly dying to answer. And I knew...  no kidding, no going back...  life was never going to be the same again.

To be continued