The Stranger Husband

Chapter 6: The Poisoned Olive Branch

I stood in the shower until the steam filled the room, the memory of his lips on my cheek burning like a brand. It wasn't affection; it was a territorial marking. First, he ignores my existence for a year, then he claims my skin in front of an audience. I stepped out, shivering, and pulled on an ivory lace chiffon nightgown—the kind of delicate thing you wear when you want to feel beautiful, even if there’s no one there to see it.

I tried to drown my thoughts in the pages of After We Collided, but the fiction couldn't compete with my own reality. By 1:00 AM, the mansion was silent. He hadn't come home. By 7:30 AM, his side of the bed was still cold, the silk sheets unruffled.

I dressed with a vengeance, choosing a navy blue dress with a sharp, high-low hem that flared when I walked. I pulled my hair into a high, punishing ponytail. If my personal life was a wreck, my professional life would be a fortress.

I reached the office at 9:35 AM, five minutes late for a collision with the elite. My secretary, Clara, looked anxious, but I headed straight for my desk to grab the files for the Oberoi meeting.

That’s when she walked in.

Gloria. She was poured into a white dress so tight it was a miracle she could breathe.

"Hello, ma'am," she chirped, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.

"Gloria, I’m late. Whatever it is, save it," I said, already halfway to the door.

"Actually, it's a favor for Johnny," she purred, stopping me in my tracks. She reached into her designer bag and pulled out a familiar object. "He forgot his wallet at my place last night. He isn't answering my calls—I suppose he’s still exhausted—so I thought I’d leave it with you."

The leather of the wallet looked dark and heavy in her hand. My stomach dropped into a cold, hollow pit. Exhausted. The implication was a physical blow. I took the wallet without a word, my fingers trembling. While I was counting the seconds at 1:00 AM, he was with her.

I tossed the wallet onto my desk like it was radioactive and marched into the conference room.

The atmosphere inside was electric. At the center of the table sat a man who looked like he’d been carved from obsidian. Raghav Oberoi. He wasn't just a businessman; he was an apex predator.

"You are exactly twelve minutes late, Miss," he said, his voice a smooth, dark baritone.

Before I could apologize, the heavy mahogany doors swung open. Johnny Orlando strode in, looking impeccably rested. My jaw tightened.

"Sorry, gentlemen. I’m a little late," Johnny said, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. He looked confused by the frost in my gaze.

"And what is your name, beautiful, if I may ask?" Raghav asked, his eyes never leaving mine, completely erasing Johnny from the conversation.

"Avantika. Avantika Willfort," I replied, stripping his name from my identity.

Johnny’s throat-clearing sounded like a crack of thunder. "She is Avantika. Avantika Johnny Vincent Orlando," he corrected, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.

Raghav’s lips curled into a smirk. "You don't look like a married woman, Miss."

"It’s Mrs.," Johnny gritted out.

Raghav ignored him, his gaze tracing a slow, agonizing path from my throat to the hem of my dress. I felt exposed, hunted. "And you are?" Johnny asked, his posture stiffening.

"This is Mr. Oberoi," Blackstone interrupted, his voice tight. "The man currently holding the keys to your survival in the global market."

Johnny extended a hand, a cold formality. Raghav didn't even look at it. "I’m not sure the pleasure is mutual, Orlando. But meeting this lovely lady? That was worth the flight from Delhi."

Johnny’s hand dropped. "She is my wife and the manager of this firm. Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the chair at his right hand.

I looked at the chair. I thought of the wallet. I thought of Gloria’s "exhaustion."

"I’ll be fine here," I said, walking to the opposite end of the table.

"You can sit beside me, Miss...?" Raghav offered, his hand lingering on the velvet back of the chair next to him.

"Mrs. Orlando," I said with a blinding, fake smile, "but you can call me Avantika." I offered him my hand.

He didn't just shake it. He pulled it to his lips, his eyes locked on mine as he kissed the back of my palm. "Avantika. A name for a queen. Call me Darling," he whispered.

I felt the heat rise—a mixture of defiance and a strange, flickering fear. Across the table, Johnny’s knuckles were white, his jaw set so hard it looked like marble.

The meeting was a bloodbath. Contracts were thrown, numbers were dissected, and through it all, Raghav played me like an instrument. "Contracts are like marriage deeds, Mr. Orlando," Raghav said, sliding a file toward me. Our fingers brushed. "For better or worse. Until it’s no longer useful. And I find this... very useful."

"The deal is dead," Johnny snapped.

"Rule Number 6," Raghav countered, looking at me. "Does the contract allow for a premature exit, Avantika?"

I scanned the fine print. "No," I said, my voice steady. "Three years minimum."

The look Johnny gave me was one of pure betrayal. I didn't care.

Three hours later, the room cleared out, leaving only Raghav and me. He leaned over my shoulder as I packed my bag, the scent of his expensive cologne overwhelming.

"Does my presence bother you, darling?" he asked, his voice a low hum. He stepped closer, pinning me against the table. "I must say, your husband is a lucky man. But luck runs out. I would love to have a beauty like you in my collection."

His hand settled on the small of my back, a possessive, heavy weight. He was leaning in, his lips inches from my ear, when the door slammed open.

Johnny stood there, his eyes like emerald fire. "Sorry to disturb the 'consultation,' but I need a word with Mr. Oberoi. Alone."

I nodded, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I turned to leave, Raghav leaned in one last time, his breath hot against my skin. "I would love to ravish you one day, Avantika. And I always get what I want." He winked and sauntered past Johnny like he owned the building.

I walked past Johnny without a glance. He looked like a man ready to burn the world down, his face a mask of silent, vibrating rage. Let him burn. He had his night with Gloria. I had my "darling."

I walked into my office and slammed the door. Bingo.