After spending more than two hours in a hotel with my boss, I returned home to prepare porridge for my paralyzed husband, but the moment I walked in, my phone was flooded with messages containing bank account numbers…

I stepped out of the Oberoi Hotel. Neon lights cast pale reflections on my tired face. Bombay was still alive, noisy, chaotic, but inside me, there was only silence. Mr. Verma, my boss, had just left, leaving me behind in a wrinkled office dress and with a huge emptiness in my chest.

My phone vibrated inside my bag.

I took it out. A notification from the bank appeared: ₹500,000 deposited. A sum so large it made my heart race.

But I didn’t feel happy.

My name is Priya, and I am 28 years old. I am an ordinary office worker living in Thane, on the outskirts of Bombay. But my life hasn’t been ordinary for a long time.

My husband, Ravi, who was once a brilliant young engineer, became paralyzed from the neck down after a car accident two years ago. Since then, I have become his nurse, caregiver, and sole provider: I feed him, bathe him, clean him, and care for him day after day, like a robot without feelings.

But tonight, I was no longer just a devoted wife.

I had done something I never thought I would be capable of.

That morning, Mr. Verma called me to his office.

A powerful man in his fifties, rich, authoritarian, and always giving me looks that made my hair stand on end.

“Priya, do you want to save your husband?”

I nodded. My heart was already pounding.

He slid a contract across the desk. The sum of 500,000 rupees was printed in bold at the top. In exchange, one night with him in a hotel.

I froze.

Ravi needed surgery. The doctors said he wouldn’t survive the year without it. We were destitute. Our families had exhausted all their resources.

I signed. My hand shook so much that my signature was barely legible.

At the hotel, I felt paralyzed. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I just… endured.

Mr. Verma was surprisingly polite. But every touch felt like a knife cutting through my pride.

When it was over, he handed me an envelope and said:

“You did well. Your husband will thank you.”

I didn’t respond. I simply bowed and left in silence.

When I arrived at our small room in Thane, the smell of boiling rice porridge filled the air.

Ravi was still there, lying down, staring blankly at the ceiling. I sat beside him, gave him porridge, and fed him slowly.

“I worked overtime today. I’m tired.”

I lied.

He nodded weakly, asking nothing.

I looked at him: the man I once loved so passionately. Now, only a shadow on a mattress.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and fell into the bowl of oats.

My phone vibrated again.

Another ₹1,000,000 had been deposited.

I froze.

Mr. Verma?

I checked the message:

“You deserve more. Don’t tell anyone.”

My heart raced.

Was it a trap?

A cruel pity?

I didn’t know.

The next morning, I arrived at the office with my nerves shattered.

Mr. Verma was gone. His secretary said he had flown to Delhi early that morning.

I sighed with relief, but unease still gnawed at me.

Then my phone vibrated again.

A message from an unknown number:

—“Priya, thank you for saving me last night. I’m Ravi, but not your Ravi.”

My body went cold.

I tried calling the number.

Disconnected.

I hurried back home.

Ravi was still in bed, motionless.

“Do you know something?” I whispered.

He looked at me. And then, a soft smile appeared.

“Priya, I know you’ve sacrificed so much. But are you sure the man you were with last night was really your boss?”

My mind raced.

I checked the contract again. The signature wasn’t Mr. Verma’s.

It was someone else:

Ravi Narayan.

The same name as my husband.

The bank transfer?

Also Ravi Narayan.

That night I couldn’t sleep.

I sat beside Ravi, trying to piece together the fragments of this twisted truth.

Had someone else intervened?

Had someone been watching me all along?

At 3 a.m., another message arrived:

“Don’t look for me. Use that money to save your husband. He doesn’t deserve more of your pain.”

I read it again.

And again.

Who was “he”?

Who was the “real Ravi”?

Was the man lying beside me really just a helpless patient?

I stared at the ₹1.5 million in my account.

And I knew this story was far from over.

Perhaps the man I had been caring for…

Was not who I thought he was.

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