After resting for few minutes Shivangi opened her eyes. Harshad again fall in deep sleep. Shivangi looked on him he was looking like a baby. Harshad lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a steady, rhythmic slumber. The sheets were pooled around his waist, leaving the sculpted expanse of his torso exposed—a landscape of ridges and planes that bore the faint, red scratches of Shivangi’s nails.

Shivangi sat on the edge of the bed, the silk sheet wrapped around her body , her eyes fixed on the object resting on the nightstand. The award. The trophy  that Harshad had won last night. Best Actor popular. It glinted in the morning light, a symbol of his professional triumph, but after last night, it had taken on a entirely different meaning. It was a prop in their private space, a witness to their depravity, and somehow, that made it even hotter.