“After spending more than two hours with my boss in a hotel, I came home to make porridge for my paralyzed husband — but what I saw shook my entire world.”
I stepped out of the Oberoi Hotel, the neon lights casting faint shadows on my exhausted face.
Mumbai was still alive — noise, crowds, chaos — but inside me, there was only silence.
Mr. Verma, my boss, had already left, and I stayed behind — in my wrinkled office dress, carrying a hollow ache in my chest.
My phone buzzed inside my purse. I took it out — it was a bank notification: ₹500,000 credited.My heartbeat quickened at the sight of such a huge amount. But there was no happiness.
My name is Priya, 28 years old. A simple office worker living in Thane — on the outskirts of Mumbai.
But my life had not been simple for a long time. My husband, Ravi — once a brilliant engineer —
became paralyzed from the neck down after a car accident two years ago.
Since then, I’ve been his nurse, caregiver, and the only breadwinner — feeding him, bathing him, cleaning him, taking care of him — every day, every night, like a machine with no emotions left. But tonight, I was no longer just a devoted wife.
I had done something I never thought I could. This morning, Mr. Verma had called me into his office.
A powerful man in his fifties — wealthy, influential, and always looking at me in ways that made my soul shiver.
He said,“Priya, do you want to save your husband?” I nodded. My heart was already pounding.
He slid a contract toward me. On top, in bold letters, it said ₹500,000.
In exchange — a night with him at a hotel.
I froze.
Ravi needed surgery.
The doctors said — without it, he might not survive a year.
We had no money left. Both families had already exhausted every bit of savings.
I signed.
My hands trembled so much that my signature barely showed.
At the hotel, I was numb.
I neither thought nor felt — just endured.
Mr. Verma was surprisingly gentle.
But every touch — tore through my self-respect.
After it was over, he handed me an envelope and said,
“You did well. Your husband will thank you.”
I said nothing. Just lowered my head and walked out quietly.
I reached home — our small room in Thane.
The smell of boiling rice porridge filled the air.
Ravi lay there — eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I sat beside him, lifted a spoonful of porridge, and fed him slowly.
“There was overtime today. I’m tired.”
I lied.
He slightly nodded, saying nothing.
I looked at him — the man I once loved more than life itself.
Now reduced to a shadow — lying on a bed, unable to move.
Tears fell from my eyes — into the bowl of porridge.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Another notification — ₹1,000,000 credited.
I froze.
Mr. Verma?
I opened the message —
“You deserve this. Don’t tell anyone.”
My heartbeat quickened again.
Was this a trap?
A cruel joke?
I didn’t know.
The next morning, I reached the office — nervous, broken.
Mr. Verma wasn’t there.
His secretary said — “He left early morning for Delhi.”
I breathed a sigh of relief —
but the uneasiness in my chest didn’t fade.
Then my phone buzzed again.
A message from an unknown number:
“Priya, thank you for saving me last night.
I am Ravi — but not your Ravi.”
A cold shiver ran through my body.
I tried calling back.
The number was switched off.
I rushed home.
Ravi was there — lying on the bed, motionless.
“Do you… know something?”
I whispered.
He looked at me — then a faint smile appeared on his lips.
“Priya, I know you’ve sacrificed a lot.
But are you sure…
that the man you were with last night was really your boss?”
My mind spun.
I pulled out the contract — and looked again.
The signature was not Mr. Verma’s.
It belonged to someone else —
Ravi Narayan.
My husband’s name.
The bank transactions?
Also in the same name — Ravi Narayan.
I couldn’t sleep that night.
I sat beside Ravi — trying to piece together this growing mystery.
At 3 AM, another message came:
“Don’t look for me.
Use the money to save your husband.
He doesn’t need your pain anymore.”
I read the message again and again.
Who was “he”?
Who was the “real Ravi”?
Was the man lying next to me really the one I thought he was?
I looked at the ₹1.5 million in my bank account.
And I understood —
this story wasn’t over yet.
Maybe the man I had been taking care of…
was not who I believed he was.