Second Chance: A Dar Chapter 8: Mistreated Bride

Chapter 8: Mistreated Bride

Touch is a powerful thing.. more than just physical contact.

It’s a silent bridge that brings two individuals closer than words ever could. The more soone grows comfortable with your touch, the deeper the connection you share.

As Rohit sifted through his mories, he could only recall brief, distant interactions with Ragini Singhania. Slaps to the face during monts of anger, or the occasional guiding grip on his hand—like when he was ill or being directed. There wasn’t a trace of i.n.t.i.m.a.c.y between them. Their relationship had always resembled that of a stern guardian and a defiant c.h.i.l.d—one bound by ti and duty, not affection.

But Rohit wanted to change that. He wanted to break her defenses for his future advances.

And this, perhaps, was his mont.

Even if the odds were slim, he took his chance. His voice was cautious, laced with a trace of mischief:

"Then... why aren’t you giving

a hug?"

For a mont, the air in the room turned still. Awkward.

It was common and almost expected for parents to embrace their children when visiting them in the hospital. But Mrs. Singhania stood still and unmoved. She was not the type to show affection, at least not openly.

Her frown deepened at the request, but she quickly composed herself. With an air of authority, she addressed the room:

"I want so alone ti with my son."

The doctor and nurse nodded and quietly stepped out. The female bodyguard, reading the unspoken intent, gave a signal to the policen outside, and soon the entire private wing was cleared.

Now it was just the two of them.

She turned back to Rohit, her voice flat but curious.

"Why do you want a hug?"

Rohit smirked lightly, half-expecting to be shut down.

"Is that too much to—"

He couldn’t finish.

Before he could complete the sentence, Mrs. Singhania stood and wrapped him in her arms.

There was no expression on her face. No tears, no tenderness, no spoken emotion.

But Rohit could feel from her touch that it carried more than just a sense of duty.

It was warm, soft and unhurried, which was totally out of his expectations. He had anticipated more questioning, more hesitation, but it seed the restraint was only a formality. For a mont, he even doubted his own judgnt.

Her scent was faintly floral, likely from her shampoo, and it lingered close to his face. Pressed against his chest was a warm, yielding softness that he couldn’t ignore.

’Hmm... 38D? No, Maybe 36E,’ he guessed inwardly.

A frown ford instantly at the absurdity of his timing. He reminded himself that this was neither the ti nor the place. However, his inner perversion quickly took control as another thought surfaced—everything was fair as long as it could be passed off as accidental. If so, it would be wiser to test just how far he could push within those limits.

Risky, but rewarding.

A crooked smile almost ford as he entertained the thought. It was the kind of sensation he could easily get used to. Still, lingering too long or doing anything overt might raise suspicion.

Even so, letting go proved difficult.

"Thank you for this hug," he murmured, his voice low. "It’s... comforting. I wish I could stay like this forever."

Saying so, he subtly tightened his embrace, letting his hands glide a little further down the curve of her back, feeling the smooth silk of her saree beneath his fingers, and settled just above her hips.

He stayed like that, letting the mont stretch, morizing the feel of her slim fra. A part of him was tempted to press in closer, but he stopped himself.

Until, unfortunately, his body betrayed him. He felt the stir down below. It was his hard and raging boner which was pressing lightly against her soft belly.

That was completely accidental and out of the plans. Just as his mind began to spiral his worst fears, a voice from behind suddenly broke the mont.

"Enough," Mrs. Singhania said firmly.

She pulled away with her usual composed expression, adjusting her saree with quiet grace. Though she said nothing more, her eyes briefly scanned him, unreadable but not cold.

"I’ll be back in a few minutes," she said before walking out of the room.

Rohit watched her go with a relieved sigh.

A small smile playing at the corners of his lips. Sothing had shifted. A wall had cracked—maybe not shattered, but enough to let a little light in.

anwhile,

Ragini went straight to the nearby washroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She was alone in the room.

She stood in turmoil, caught in the grip of an inner conflict she hadn’t anticipated.

Throughout her life, she had been deprived of true love. It wasn’t that she lacked anything. She had beauty, grace, and intelligence—but fate had dealt her a cruel hand.

In college, the man she loved turned out to be a fraud.

Later, her family entrusted her to a married man who already had a daughter. She was rely a replacent for his deceased wife. Despite that, she fulfilled her role as a mother and treated the girl like her own flesh and blood.

Now, things should have improved—but they didn’t.

The husband she had pinned her hopes on turned out to be far worse than she had ever imagined.

He was a smooth-talker who abused his position, sleeping with subordinates and the wives of business partners, all while his wife was pregnant.

The first ti she caught him was seared into her mory. It happened in their own house, during a party ant to celebrate their third wedding anniversary. She found him with the wife of a senior manager. The betrayal was staggering.

But she swallowed it.

She bore too many responsibilities—toward her children, her family, and her in-laws. That day, sothing inside her died. She ceased being a wife and beca only two things: a mother, and a dutiful daughter of the influential family that had once brokered this alliance with the Singhanias.

From then on, she took over the household, drew boundaries, and made it clear—she and her husband were partners in na only. He could do what he wanted in his private life, but it would never cross the threshold of their ho again.

She quickly learned that in a world like theirs, status was everything. weakness was a curse and to garner support she had to be useful.

So she made herself indispensable. She earned respect. She held the family together. Even her philandering husband began to tread carefully around her. And amid all the dysfunction, she found so semblance of peace in raising her daughters.

Then, everything changed fourteen years ago.

One day, her husband ca ho with a four-year-old boy. All he said was that the child’s parents, who were one of his business partners and close friends, had died in an accident, and he had decided to adopt the boy.

Ragini’s instincts flared. She accused him of fathering the child with a mistress. But all he offered was silence and a firm, "My decision is final." He didn’t deny it, nor did he confirm it.

From that day on, Rohit beca the adopted son of the Singhania family—and a thorn in her heart.

She did her duty. She raised him, educated him, ensured he lacked nothing. But she could never fully accept him. He felt like a living, breathing insult. A constant reminder of her husband’s betrayal, even if the boy himself was innocent.

She told herself she was doing the right thing. She never hard him. She was strict but fair. He tolerated her coldness without question, and that made it worse. Deep down, she knew she had been harsh—perhaps too harsh.

Over the years, her feelings softened, though she never admitted it. She began to see Rohit as part of the family. Not as her son, but not quite a stranger either.

Then ca the call that shattered her composure.

It was late at night when her close friend, Kavita Sharma, the wife of a High Court judge, called. Their children had been attacked on their way ho from school and were now in the hospital.

Her heart clenched.

This was the first ti Rohit had been in serious danger, and she couldn’t help but worry.

When she finally saw him, bandaged and bruised, relief washed over her. But sothing in his eyes caught her off guard.

There was no fear. No timid obedience. Instead, there was a quiet defiance—a spark she hadn’t seen before.

And when the doctor handed over the report, stating Amnesia, her heart grew heavy.

Rohit had lost his mories. He would have to rebuild everything from scratch. The thought of him facing the world alone, without the past to guide him, struck her harder than expected.

Then ca the mont that truly shook her.

He asked her for a hug.

A simple, human gesture. One that should’ve been easy. But it wasn’t.

She wasn’t prepared. Not ntally. Not emotionally. So she asked the others to leave and confronted him again.

And when she saw the vulnerability in his eyes—the need—sothing inside her cracked.

She stepped forward and embraced him.

His arms wrapped around her gently, respectfully. There was no malice. No agenda. Just warmth. His touch was probing, curious, but never crossing the line. It had been years since anyone had hugged her like that. Even her daughters had stopped doing so.

And when he whispered that he wanted to stay like this forever... she felt herself giving in, just for a mont.

She held him tighter. She felt the strength in his fra, the warmth of his body, the way he grounded her.

So part of her felt an unexpected sense of relief, enough to let the mont stretch longer than it should have.

And then she felt it, a reaction.

His body, betraying his words. His hands resting near her hips. Her chest pressed too closely to his. A part of him responding instinctively. That was when she snapped back to reality.

It was part of her mistake. She got swayed.

With quiet composure, she stepped away and straightened her saree. She didn’t speak of it. She didn’t sha him. She simply stated, "I’ll be back in a few minutes," and left the room.

Now, standing before the mirror in the washroom, she stared at her own reflection.

Her face was flawless—no wrinkles, no cracks—but behind the poise was weight. The weight of responsibility. Of being a mother. A matriarch. A Singhania.

She splashed cold water on her face and muttered under her breath:

"This cannot happen again."

She composed herself and returned to the private wing, only to find his bed empty.