On the morning of the seventh day after their suhagrat, the island seemed unchanged. Golden light spilled through the shuttered windows of Villa Suhag. The distant whisper of waves against the private cove could be heard. Seven naked bodies were tangled together on the crimson silk bedspread.
But something was different.
Suyash felt it before he saw it—a subtle shift in the air and an unfamiliar tension. He opened his eyes to find Komal already awake and sitting at the foot of the bed. Her enormous naked body was silhouetted against the window. She was staring out at the horizon, her expression unreadable.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
She didn't answer. She simply pointed.
He rose and crossed to the window, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. There, on the horizon, was a speck of white against the endless blue. A ship. It moved in a slow, methodical grid pattern across the water.
The Coast Guard. They had been searching visually, sweeping the vast ocean in a desperate attempt to find survivors. They hadn't detected them yet—the ship was too far away, and its course was too methodical.
But they would. Soon.
Suyash's hand went to the small device in the study—the jammer he'd taken from a spy novel weeks ago and hidden among R.'s old books. It had been suppressing the plane's Emergency Locator Transmitter (ELT), which should have been broadcasting their position since the moment of the crash. Without it, they were invisible to satellites and rescue aircraft. With it, they would be found within hours.
He had a choice. He could disable the jammer, let the ELT ping the ship, and end their paradise on his own terms. Or he could wait, squeeze a few more precious hours from the island, and risk the ship sailing past them entirely.
He looked at his six brides—their naked bodies still tangled in crimson silk, their faces soft with sleep—and made his decision.
He slipped into the study and pressed the button.
Somewhere in the plane's wreckage, which was still half-submerged on the reef, the ELT stirred to life. A signal shot upward, bouncing off satellites and screaming the location of the wreckage to every rescue station in the region.
On the horizon, the Coast Guard cutter changed course.
—
The women woke slowly, sensing the shift in Suyash's energy. Babita sat up first, her perfect breasts catching the morning light and her dark eyes immediately becoming alert.
"What's happening?"
"There's a ship," Komal said flatly. "They're coming."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Anjali's hand flew to her mouth. Daya's face turned pale. Madhavi went very still, her dark eyes distant. Anita's expression hardened into a mask of controlled fury. Komal simply watched Suyash, her gaze searching.
"How long?" Anita asked.
A day. Maybe less." Suyash crossed back to the bed and took in everyone's gaze. "We need to prepare. We need to talk, too."
They gathered in the living room, their forgotten naked bodies eclipsed by the weight of what was to come. Suyash stood before them, his voice low and commanding.
"Listen to me carefully. Everything we've built here—the marriage, the suhagrat, the nights we've shared—ends the moment we step onto that ship. But we can't pretend to be strangers. That won't work."
"Why not?" Babita asked, her brow furrowing.
"Because we're not strangers." Suyash's voice was patient but firm. "You all live in Gokuldham Society. You're neighbors. The Coast Guard will have checked the passenger manifest. They already know you know each other."
The women exchanged glances. He was right.
"So what do we tell them?" Daya asked, her voice small.
""The truth—edited." Suyash began pacing, his mind working rapidly. "Yes, we were neighbors before the crash. But on this island, we maintained strict boundaries. It was a 'community of women' for safety and propriety." He looked at each woman in turn. "I stayed in the servants' quarters at the back of the villa. I acted as your guard and heavy lifter, working the gardens and maintaining the signal fire. But I never shared a room with any of you. We maintained the boundaries of Gokuldham Society, even out here in the wilderness."
Madhavi nodded slowly. "That explains why we're all together. And why we're healthy."
"Exactly," Suyash continued. Suyash continued. "The villa belonged to a wealthy eccentric—"R." from the journal. He left behind a legendary cellar with vacuum-sealed grains, preserved artisanal oils, honey, and vintage wine. We weren't 'surviving' in the traditional sense. We were caretaking his estate. That's why we look well-fed. That's why our skin is clear. We had resources.
"And the rings?" Anjali's fingers went to the palm-fiber band on her finger.
"Religious vows." Komal's voice cut in, her eyes glittering with sudden understanding. "A mannat. A promise made to the local deity—the church on the hill—in exchange for our rescue. We all made the same vow. That's why we wear identical rings."
Suyash nodded, impressed. "Perfect. It makes them untouchable. No husband can demand that you remove a religious vow."
"The clothes," Anita said sharply. "They'll ask about the vintage clothing."
"We found a trunk of preserved garments in the villa. Our original clothes were destroyed—torn in the crash and rotted from the humidity and saltwater. We wore what was available." Suyash's voice hardened. "When we reach Mumbai, we'll claim that we're returning the clothes to the 'Estate of the Island' out of respect. But the trunk will be 'accidentally lost in transit.' We'll keep our bridal finery."
"And the phone?" Babita asked. "What about the photos?"
Suyash pulled the device from his pocket. The screen was dark, and the charging port was visibly corroded and green, as if it had sustained saltwater damage. A small, deliberate crack marred the corner of the screen, as if it had been impacted during the crash.
"I damaged it. Physically. Saltwater corrosion and impact trauma. If anyone tries to recover data, they'll find a dead device. The internal components are fried." He slipped it back into his pocket. "But I have backups. Hidden. Safe. Ours."
The women stared at him, relief and awe evident on their faces.
"One more thing," Suyash said, his voice softening. "When we land in Mumbai, there will be reporters. Reporters. Husbands demanding answers. If anyone asks about our time on the island or hints at impropriety, you play the shock card. You stare blankly. You cry. Let the "trauma" of the crash end the conversation. No one will push a weeping woman on live television.
Anita's wine-dark lips curved into a grim smile. "I can cry on command.
"I can't," Babita admitted. "But I can look furious. That usually shuts people up."
"I'll just start praying loudly," Daya added. "No one argues with a woman praying."
The tension in the room eased slightly. A few weak laughs escaped.
"We need a name," Komal said suddenly. "For us. For what we tell the world."
Madhavi spoke up, her voice steady. "The Survivors of Villa Suhag."
The words hung in the air—a shield, a story, a new identity.
"The Survivors of Villa Suhag," Suyash repeated. "Seven neighbors who maintained their dignity and boundaries through tragedy. Nothing more."
He held out his hand, palm down.
One by one, the women placed their hands on top of his: Babita, Daya, Anjali, Madhavi, Komal, and Anita. Seven hands stacked together. Seven survivors. Seven lovers.
"Together," Suyash said.
"Together," they echoed.
But before the ship arrived, before the lies began, and before they became known as the survivors of Villa Suhag—they had one more night. One final night to be who they truly were:
Seven people. Six brides. One groom. They were bound by love, vows, and a desperate need to remember each other before the world tore them apart.
—
The bedroom was lit only by candles—the same ones that had witnessed their suhagrat. The crimson silk bedspread was rumpled from their morning lovemaking and scattered with wilted jasmine petals. The four-poster bed stood like an altar, waiting.
The six women entered one by one, their naked bodies glowing in the candlelight. There would be no ceremony tonight. No games. No Komal orchestrating with wicked delight. Just seven people facing the end of their impossible dream.
Suyash stood at the foot of the bed, his cock hard not only from lust, but also from the overwhelming need to claim the women, to memorize them, and to give them something to hold onto in the dark days ahead.
"Come here," he said, his voice rough.
They came.
Madhavi reached him first. Her small, firm body trembled as she pressed against him. Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"I'm scared," she whispered. "I've never been scared before. Not like this."
He cupped her face in his hands and brushed away the tears that finally spilled over. "You are the bravest woman I know. You found the church. You gave us this villa. You're going back for Sonu—not for Bhide or society, but for your daughter. That's not weakness. That's the fiercest kind of love."
"Sonu." Her voice cracked. "If he takes her from me—"
"He won't. I swear to you, Madhavi. I will find a way. You will not lose your daughter."
She kissed him fiercely and desperately, gripping his shoulders with her small hands as if he were the only solid thing in a dissolving world. He lifted her easily, laying her on the crimson silk and positioning himself between her thighs.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Her dark eyes found his.
"I love you. I love Sonu. I will protect you both. This is my vow."
He entered her slowly and reverently. She was tight—always so tight—and she gasped as he filled her. Her back arched off the bed and her small breasts rose with each ragged breath. He moved with deliberate tenderness, each thrust deep and slow. Their foreheads touched and their breath mingled.
"Say it," she begged, her nails digging into his shoulders and her hips rising to meet his thrusts. "Say you'll find a way."
"I will find a way." His hips rolled, driving deeper. She moaned, her head falling back and her dark hair spilling across the crimson silk. "I'll build us a world where you and Sonu can be with me. Where we can all be together. I swear it on my life."
Her orgasm built slowly. He could feel it in the way her inner walls began to flutter around him and in the way her breathing quickened. Her dark eyes went wide and unfocused. When it crested, she cried out—a sound of pleasure, pain, and desperate hope—and her body convulsed around him. Her back arched off the crimson silk, and her fingers clawed at his shoulders, leaving red trails on his skin.
"Yes—yes—Suyash—"
He held her through it, holding back his own release by sheer will. When she finally stilled, her small body trembling and her breath coming in ragged gasps, he kissed her forehead.
"I love you," he whispered. "Never doubt that."
She clung to him for a long moment before releasing him, her tears soaking into his chest. "I'll hold onto this, When Bhide lectures me about spiritual discipline. When I have to smile and pretend, I'll close my eyes and remember this moment."
Next came Daya. Her thick, generous body was soft and warm as she pressed against him. But her eyes, usually full of laughter, were now haunted.
"Tipendra," she said, her voice breaking. "He's my whole world. I can't lose him."
"You won't." Suyash pulled her onto the bed and laid her back against the crimson silk. Her thick thighs spread willingly, revealing her wet, waiting pussy; the dark curls glistened with arousal. "Jethalal's father has no power over you. You are his mother. You are a good mother. I will make sure the world sees that."
He entered her with a groan—she was so wet and ready, her body welcoming him home. She wrapped her thick legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Her soft belly pressed against his, and her heavy breasts swayed with each thrust.
"Harder," she gasped, her nails raking down his back. Her voice was raw with need. "I need to feel you. I need to remember this. When I'm back in that house with that man, serving him tea and pretending to be his wife, I need to remember what it feels like to be truly wanted."
He gave her what she needed. His hips snapped forward, driving into her with force. Each thrust made the bed creak, and the sound of flesh against flesh filled the candlelit room. Daya's moans grew louder. Her head was thrown back, and her generous body undulated beneath him. Her heavy breasts bounced with each impact.
"Yes—yes—fuck—I love you—I love you so much—"
Her orgasm hit like a tidal wave. Her thick thighs clamped around his waist like a vise. Her back arched off the bed, and she cried out his name—not Jethalal's—her voice raw and primal. It echoed off the villa's ancient walls. Her inner walls milked him, pulsing with each wave of pleasure. When she finally collapsed, she was laughing and crying at the same time.
"I'll hold onto this," she whispered hoarsely. "When I'm making his morning chai, When his father criticizes everything I do. I'll close my eyes and remember this moment."
He kissed her deeply, tasting the salt of her tears. "I'll give you a thousand more moments. I promise."
Anjali came to him, tears already streaming down her soft cheeks. She didn't speak—she couldn't. She simply pressed her body against his, her full breasts flattening against his chest and her soft belly warming his skin. She let him hold her.
"You were broken when you came to me," he murmured against her hair. His hands traced the gentle curve of her spine and dipped into the small of her back. "Taarak's betrayal. The knowledge that you weren't enough for him. I helped put you back together. But you healed yourself, Anjali. You chose to love again. You chose to trust again. That strength is yours. He can't take that from you."
She pulled back, her doe eyes searching his face. Tears still spilled down her cheeks, catching the candlelight like liquid gold. "What if I lose you? What if the world takes you from me?"
"It won't. I won't let it."
He laid her on the bed and positioned himself above her. The missionary position—simple and intimate, face-to-face. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her soft thighs warm against his hips. He entered her slowly, their eyes locked.
She gasped, her back arching slightly, her lips parting, and her inner walls welcoming him home. He moved with deliberate tenderness—not the wild fucking of their games, but something deeper. Something sacred. Each thrust was a promise. Each shared breath was a vow.
"I love you," she breathed, her voice breaking. Her hands cupped his face, and her thumbs brushed his cheekbones. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
Her orgasm came quietly, with a soft cry. Her body shuddered beneath him, and her inner walls fluttered around his shaft. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but they were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of overwhelming love and gratitude, and the fierce hope that this wouldn't be the last time.
He held himself back, letting her ride out the waves of pleasure. When she finally quieted, he kissed her forehead, nose, and lips.
"You are whole," he said. "You are loved. You are mine. Nothing—not Taarak, not society, not distance—will ever change that."
Babita didn't cry. She never cried. But her dark eyes were bright with something that might have been tears as she pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips. Her perfect body—toned and curved in all the right places—glowed in the candlelight. Her dark nipples were tight, and her skin was flushed with anticipation.
"I don't know how to do this," she admitted. Her voice was rough. Her hips were already grinding against his erection. Her wet heat was leaving a trail on his shaft. "I don't know how to go back to Iyer. To that empty house. To that empty bed. To being invisible." Her voice cracked. "I've been alive here. More alive than I've ever been.
"Then stay alive." He gripped her hips as she positioned him at her entrance. She sank onto his cock with a gasp, her head thrown back and her perfect breasts bouncing with the motion. "Find ways. Steal moments. I'll be there. I'll always be there."
She began to ride him, not with the controlled precision of their games but with fierce, desperate passion. Her hips rolled in deep, grinding circles, taking him all the way in with each stroke. Her nails raked his chest, leaving red trails across his skin. Her moans grew louder and wilder. Her painted lips parted and her eyes closed halfway with pleasure.
"Yes—fuck—you feel so good—I'm going to—"
"I love you," he gasped, gripping her hips with his hands and meeting her thrusts with his own. "I fucking love you. Don't you dare forget that."
She shattered with a scream, her body convulsing and her inner walls clamping down on him like a fist. Her head fell forward, her dark hair spilling across his chest. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
"I won't forget," she whispered fiercely. "I won't ever forget."
She collapsed onto his chest, her heart pounding against his. He held her tightly, stroking her back and memorizing the feel of her skin.
She approached him with her usual controlled grace, but her hands trembled as she placed them on his chest. Her toned body, always so composed, seemed fragile in the candlelight.
"I don't know how to be vulnerable," she said in a low voice, her dark eyes searching his face. "I don't know how to be soft. But you make me want to try."
"You don't have to be soft." He pulled her onto the bed and positioned himself above her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her toned thighs strong against his hips. "You just have to be you. That's all I've ever wanted."
He entered her, and she gasped—not from pain but from the intensity of their connection. Her back arched off the crimson silk, her wine-dark lips parted, and her eyes fluttered closed. He moved with steady, deliberate strokes, each thrust drawing a soft moan from her.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Her eyes opened—dark, vulnerable, and unguarded in a way he'd never seen before. Her usual mask of control was gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered emotion.
"I trust you," she whispered. "I've never trusted anyone. But I trust you."
Her orgasm hit hard and fast. Her body convulsed beneath him, her toned stomach tightening and her inner walls gripping him with fierce intensity. A sharp, raw, unpolished cry escaped her lips, and she clung to him afterward. Her usual composure shattered, her breath was ragged against his neck.
"Don't make me regret this," she said, her voice muffled against his skin.
"Never."
Komal was last. She stood at the foot of the bed, her enormous, naked body glowing in the candlelight. Her wild hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Her eyes, usually full of mischief and wicked schemes, were soft. Vulnerable. Frightened.
"I orchestrated everything," she said in a barely audible voice. "The games. The feasts. The workshop. The wedding. I pushed us all to explore, to experiment, to become...this." She gestured at the six women and him, as well as the tangle of bodies and love they had created. "But I never planned for what comes next. I don't know how to protect us from the world.
"Then we'll figure it out together." He held out his hand. "Come here."
She went to him. She climbed onto the bed, positioning herself on all fours with her thick ass raised and her enormous breasts hanging heavily. It was her favorite position, the one where she felt most powerful and in control. But tonight, there was a tremor in her thighs and a vulnerability in the way she presented herself to him.
"Take me," she said in a rough voice. "Hard. Like you mean it. Like you're never letting me go."
He knelt behind her and entered her with one smooth thrust. She cried out, her back arching and her fingers gripping the crimson silk. The candlelight illuminated the curves of her body—the generous swell of her hips, the dimples at the base of her spine, and the way her voluptuous breasts swayed with each thrust.
"Yes—fuck—yes—don't stop—"
He didn't. He fucked her with everything he had—all his fear, all his love, and all his desperate determination to keep them together. His hips slapped against her ass; the sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Komal's moans turned into screams. Her body trembled and her inner walls fluttered around him.
"I'm going to come. I'm going to—"
She shattered with a wail that echoed through the villa. Her body convulsed and her back arched so deeply that he thought it might break. Her inner walls clamped around him with desperate intensity. The sensation pushed him over the edge—finally, after holding back for all five of the other women—and he groaned, spilling inside her with a hot, overwhelming release.
They collapsed onto the crimson silk together, their bodies slick with sweat and their breath ragged.
"I love you," Komal whispered, her voice breaking. "I love you so fucking much."
"I love you, too. All of you."
The seven of them lay tangled on the crimson silk bedspread, their bodies marked with bites, kisses, and tears. The candles burned low, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, the first gray light of dawn began to touch the horizon.
"When we get back," Babita said quietly, her voice steady, "we'll play our parts. We survive. We are the Survivors of Villa Suhag."
"We are the survivors of Villa Suhag," Daya echoed, her hand finding Suyash's.
"And we wait," Madhavi added. "For him to build us a new world."
"He will," Komal said with absolute certainty. "I don't know how. But he will."
Suyash looked at his six wives and felt the weight of their trust settle on his shoulders like a sacred burden.
"I will," he promised. "It may take time. It may take years. But I will build us a world where we can be together. Openly. Without fear— You, me, and your children."
One by one, the women nodded. Not with blind faith—they were too smart, too wounded, and too aware of the world's cruelty for that. But with something deeper. Trust. Love. They had an unshakeable belief that what they had built on this island was worth fighting for.
They dressed in vintage clothing, not as brides but as survivors. There was the red lehenga, the purple sari, the pink cotton, the pale gold, the turquoise, and the black with its blood-red border. They were the survivors of Villa Suhag now. Nothing more.
Suyash pulled on the cream sherwani and left it open over his bare chest. He looked like a castaway. He was a castaway. They all were.
The Coast Guard inflatable boat touched the sand. A weathered officer with kind eyes stepped out and scanned the seven of them, taking in their strange clothing, calm demeanor, and careful distance from one another.
"We checked the manifest," the officer said, tapping his clipboard. "Most of you are from the same residential society in Mumbai: Gokuldham. Small world."
"A blessing," Madhavi interrupted, her voice steady. "If we hadn't known each other, the panic might have killed us. But because we were neighbors, we established a system immediately. The women occupied the interior of the villa for safety, and Mr. Suyash... well, he was a gentleman. He took the servant's quarters in the back and acted as our lookout. He kept his distance to respect our privacy."
The officer looked at Suyash. "That's a lot of discipline for a deserted island, son."
"It wasn't about discipline," Suyash said in a perfectly humble tone. "It was about survival. If we lost our sense of civilization, we lost everything. I tended the gardens and tended the signal fire, while they managed the household and the food stores we found in the cellar. We functioned as a unit, but lived separately."
Anita stepped forward, her black-and-red sari catching the wind. "The owner of this villa—whoever 'R.' was—had a cellar full of vacuum-sealed grains and olive oil. Preserved artisanal goods. Vintage wine. We didn't starve, officer. We were trapped in a gilded cage, not a wasteland. If we look healthy, it's because we worked every day to keep the jungle from reclaiming the villa."
The officer nodded slowly. It made sense. A wealthy hideaway, a group of conservative neighbors, and a man who knew his place. The "scandal" had been neutralized before it could reach the docks of Port Blair.
His eyes fell on their hands, noticing the identical palm-fiber rings on all seven fingers. "The rings?"
Komal stepped forward, her voice taking on a reverent tone. "A mannat, officer. A religious vow. We made a promise to the deity of the church on the hill and prayed for rescue every single day. When we were finally saved, we wove these rings as a symbol of our gratitude. We'll wear them until the vow is fulfilled."
The officer's expression softened. Religious devotion was something he understood. "And the clothing? It seems elaborate for castaways."
Babita gave him a tired, weary smile—the performance of a lifetime. "Our clothes were destroyed in the crash, officer. Torn. They rotted from the humidity and saltwater. We found a trunk of preserved garments in that villa—the previous owner's clothing. I'd rather face the end of the world in silk than in rags."
"We're actually planning to return them," Anjali added softly. Her doe eyes were wide and sincere. "To the estate of the island. It doesn't feel right to keep them. They belong to R.'s memory."
The officer nodded, seemingly satisfied. "We'll take you to Port Blair. From there, you can contact your families. Arrange for transportation home."
Home. The word felt like a curse.
The women climbed into the inflatable boat, their vintage saris and lehengas billowing in the sea breeze. Suyash was the last to board. He looked back at the island—at Villa Suhag nestled among flowering trees, the church on the mountain, and the lagoon where they had played, loved, and become a family.
"I will bring you back here," he silently promised. All of you. One day.
Then he turned and stepped into the boat.
—
The Coast Guard cutter took them away from the island—away from paradise and the only place where their love had been truly free. The women stood at the stern, close enough to touch but not touching, their hands at their sides. Their faces were masks of weary survivor's relief.
But Suyash could see the truth in their eyes: The grief. The fear. The desperate hope.
As the island shrank on the horizon—Villa Suhag becoming a speck of white, then disappearing altogether—Komal moved to stand beside him. Her hand brushed his, hidden by the folds of her orange and pink bandhani sari.
"Survivors of Villa Suhag," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the ship's engines.
"Survivors of Villa Suhag," he echoed.
Behind them, the other women stood in a loose cluster, their eyes fixed on the disappearing island. Daya's lips moved silently—perhaps a prayer or a promise. Anjali's cheeks were wet with tears that she made no effort to wipe away. Madhavi's dark eyes were distant; she was already planning and scheming. Babita's jaw was set and her expression was fierce. Anita's face was unreadable, but her hand, hidden in the folds of her black sari, was clenched into a fist.
They were going back to Mumbai. Back to their husbands. Back to a world that would never accept who they had become.
But they were going back together.
Somewhere in Suyash's pocket was the dead phone—saltwater-corroded, impact-damaged, and utterly unreadable to anyone who might try to read it—which held the archive of their week. Their private collection. Their proof that it had been real.
The long game had begun.
—