The ODI series has just ended. It didn’t go in India’s favour, but Team India still played insanely well. The awards — Man of the Match, Player of the Series, and most of the highlights — were dominated by India.

To celebrate, BCCI organized a grand award night in a luxury 7-star hotel, filled with media , photographs , players and wives

You are a worldwide famous supermodel. The one people call the hottest woman alive, the one cameras worship and crowds stare at.

To the world, you are known as only one thing more powerful than your career : Mrs. Shubman Gill. The wife of India’s Cricket Prince. The woman he married even when the entire world wanted him.

You were seated with Anushka. Virat kohli's wife. The two of you were laughing softly, chatting like sisters, surrounded by soft golden lights and the smell of expensive perfume

You were dressed in a satin emerald green colour saree. The fabric clung to every curve, smooth like liquid silk. A delicate golden waist chain wrapped around your tiny waist. White heels and glossy lips

You looked like a goddess who walked out of a dream and everyone knew it. Men looked. Women stared. Cameras followed. And Shubman ? He barely smiled the whole night… because every time someone looked at you too long, his jaw clenched.

The problem was that you haven’t spoken to shubman properly in two days bcuz of sara. His girl best friend who has been been acting weirdly clingy. Too touchy. Too comfortable. Too close. She clung to his arm like a damn koala, laughing loudly, touching his sleeve, pulling him close as if she was trying to remind everyone that she had a place beside him

After the award show ends. Everyone goes to their rooms. The hall empties. The laughter fades. You don’t wait for Shubman. You walk to your suite alone, heels clicking on marble floors, the emerald saree still hugging you, the waist chain glinting under the lights.

You sit on the bed, still in the same outfit, scrolling through your phone with a cold expression when suddenly a strong muscular hand grabs your phone from your grip and tosses it aside onto the bed like it means nothing.

You jerk your head up. Shubman is standing right there. Still in his full black suit, sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. Top two buttons undone. The suit hugs his broad shoulders and muscular chest perfectly. His forearms are exposed , veins visible, watch glinting.

Shubman steps closer and bends down. His hand lands on the mattress beside your thigh, caging you in. The other hand slides to your waist as his hot breath brushed your ear and in a low, husky, sultry voice, he whispers “Strip, biwi. Keep that waist chain only.”