The bungalow was quiet except for the low hum of the air-conditioner and the occasional clink of dishes as Pushpa tidied the kitchen after lunch.

Mansi sat on the living-room sofa in a light silk robe, legs crossed, scrolling idly on her phone while secretly refreshing news apps on silent mode.

She had been waiting for this moment all day.

At 2:15 p.m., Pushpa walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her dupatta, worry creasing her brow.

“Didi… Ashraful abhi tak nahi aaya. Medicine lene gaya tha na subah mein? Phone bhi switch off hai… location bhi nahi dikh raha.”

Mansi looked up with perfectly feigned concern, setting her phone aside.

“Arre? Abhi tak nahi? Shayad dukaan pe line hogi… ya traffic mein phas gaya hoga. Tension mat le, Pushpa. Woh jaldi aa jayega.”

Pushpa sat beside her, still anxious.

“Lekin didi… woh din mein bahar jaata hi nahi tha itne mahine se. Aaj achanak… aur phone off?”

Mansi placed a comforting hand on Pushpa’s thigh, squeezing gently.

“Bas thodi der aur dekh le. Aa, baith mere paas… tension door kar deti hoon teri.”

She pulled Pushpa closer, untying her dupatta and letting it fall.

Pushpa’s cotton saree followed, then her blouse and petticoat, until she was naked, her wheatish body trembling slightly with worry.

Mansi slipped off her own robe, revealing her naked form, and drew Pushpa into her arms.

“Shhh… sab theek ho jayega,” Mansi whispered, guiding Pushpa’s mouth to her breast.

Pushpa latched on instinctively, sucking hard on the nipple, drawing out warm milk in rhythmic pulls that made Mansi sigh.

Mansi stroked her hair, then gently pushed her down between her spread thighs.

“Ab meri seva kar… meri chut chaat… tension bhool ja.”

Pushpa knelt on the carpet, spreading Mansi’s legs wide on the sofa, and buried her face in her pussy.

Her tongue lapped slowly at first, then faster, sucking the clit, plunging inside, tasting the faint lingering traces of Ashraful’s morning cum.

Mansi leaned back, eyes half-closed, moaning softly, one hand on Pushpa’s head guiding her deeper.

“Haan Pushpa… aise hi… zor se chaat… meri achhi ladki…”

The room filled with wet, intimate sounds: Pushpa’s tongue slurping, Mansi’s soft gasps, the occasional clink of Pushpa’s bangles.

Suddenly, the television (which had been on mute in the background) flashed a breaking-news ticker.

Mansi’s eyes flicked open just as the anchor’s voice boomed:

“Breaking: Dreaded Uttar Pradesh gangster Ashraful Khan arrested in dramatic raid in posh Mumbai locality. Khan, wanted in multiple murder and kidnapping cases in Saharanpur, was hiding in the city for over a year…”

A blurry photo of Ashraful in handcuffs flashed on screen—hooded, being bundled into a police van.

Mansi let out a sharp, perfectly timed yelp.

“Arre… yeh… Ashraful?!”

Pushpa’s head snapped up from between Mansi’s thighs, mouth glistening, eyes wide with genuine shock.

“Didi… yeh… yeh Ashraful hai? Arrest? Murderer?”

Mansi pulled Pushpa up immediately, wrapping her arms around her naked body, both of them trembling (Mansi’s from calculated acting, Pushpa’s from real horror).

She cuddled her close on the sofa, their bare breasts pressed together, legs tangled, as the news continued:

“…Ashraful Khan, 22, son of notorious criminal Rafiq Khan… linked to 2024 Saharanpur murder… interstate operation by UP and Mumbai police… tip-off led to swift arrest…”

Pushpa burst into tears, clinging to Mansi.

“Didi… yeh sach hai? Woh… woh murderer tha? Hum dono ke saath… har roz…?”

Mansi held her tighter, stroking her back, her own face a mask of shock (Oscar-worthy).

“Main… main bhi nahi jaanti thi, Pushpa… usne bola tha orphan hai… maine bhi uspe bharosa kiya…”

She let a single tear roll down her cheek, perfectly timed.

“Par ab… safe hain hum. Woh kabhi wapas nahi aayega.”

Pushpa sobbed quietly into her shoulder, body shaking.

“Par didi… woh humein chodta tha… hum uske saath… agar uski family ko pata chala toh?”

Mansi kissed her forehead, voice firm now.

“Kuch nahi hoga. Police ne pakda hai… humein kuch nahi pata tha. Safe hain hum. Ab sirf hum dono hain.”

She rocked Pushpa gently, their naked bodies entwined, the television still droning about Ashraful’s crimes in the background.

Inside, Mansi felt nothing but cold triumph.

The liar was gone.

The threat eliminated.

Her name untouched.

She kissed Pushpa’s tear-streaked cheek.

“Ab ro mat… aaj se naya shuruaat.

Aur ek naya lund bhi jaldi aayega—clean, safe, aur sirf humara.”

Pushpa looked up, eyes red but trusting.

“Sach didi?”

Mansi smiled, wiping her tears.

“Sach. Ab sirf mazaa… no danger.”

And as the news looped Ashraful’s arrest photo again, Mansi held Pushpa close, already planning Arif’s arrival.

The chapter was closed.

A new, safer one was about to begin.