The Workaholic Wife ✅

The Journey to the City of Love

"Krithi, they're connected." She shakes her head at the monitor, as if she's not believing her eyes. "You're having conjoined twins."

"What?!"

"The two boys are doing well, I suppose."

I specifically told Alisha that I didn't want to know their gender.

"Boys! Alisha, why did you tell me?!"

"I'm sorry. It just came out." Her voice quivers at the end in nervousness.

I sigh. "It's alright. Are they really okay, though?"

"Yeah, they're completely fine. They are joined by the hip, by the looks of it. We would have a major problem of separating them if they're connected by the head."

"Separating? No, no. I don't want them separated." I wince at the thought of losing them.

"They will hate living and acting together, Krithi. They need to be separated."

"Well, we'll worry about that when the time comes. I just want to know if I can travel."

"You can, but it's risky. What if you go into labour in Paris?" She exclaims.

I laugh. "Alisha, there are doctors in Paris too." She bobs her head nonchalantly, floating in her own world.

"I suppose." She sighs. "Take care of yourself, Krithi. I'll have a plan for how to deliver your babies by the time you come back, alright?"

I kiss her on the cheek, and she pulls me in for a hug. "Be careful with Aarav." I warn her, and she smiles a gentle smile, and turns, taking off the gloves she wore.

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It is exactly midday as I board the plane. It was tempting to call for a wheelchair as I walked through the colossal airport, but I control the urge, uncomfortable with the fact that I will feel incapable of walking.

I sleep for most of the time on the plane, occasionally having some fun with the paper bag in the pouch in front of me. There was no space to put my legs, and I tossed and turned for the majority of my slumber. My seat-mates, and the air hosts and hostesses were quite fond of me by the time we landed on the ground. This is exactly why I should have booked first class tickets; but it was too expensive for a cheapskate such as myself. I just got my account floating on top of the waters again, and I don't want to sink into another round of pre-bankruptcy.

Once I pick up my luggage, I drag myself through the  Paris airport, too tired to marvel at the architecture.
A flock of taxi drivers flock towards me, speaking in their thick French accents as I exit the doors. I don't trust them. I clutch onto my luggage, picking a random taxi, and noting the code on the number plate like my mother taught me to. The taxi driver who owns the car claps, running towards me to aide me.

I took French in my higher secondary, so I better put my skills to good use.

"Bonjour." I greet, hoping my slight Indian accent wouldn't ruin my French speaking skills. The round-bellied man greets me back, smiling at me warmly as he asks for my luggage. I shake my head, clutching onto it. He might look like my grandfather, but looks can be deceiving.

"Merci beaucoup, monsieur." I reply, as he sighs and opens the door. I place my small luggage in front of me, observing the car as the driver climbs in on the other side. Is how him the address I wrote down. I might have called up a certain secretary and black-mailed the information of his whereabouts.

The man nods curtly, and starts to drive. After a te minute ride, we stand in front a massive hotel, and I open the door, paying the man with my world-wife credit card and rolling the luggage toward the hotel.

I wore a conservative dress that I bought before I made my way to the airport to catch my flight. It was comfortable but high-end. It looks wrinkly now, thanks to my plane ride. I walk in through the doors, and a man greets me warmly. I am not paying to stay in this expensive place. I smile for the sake of it, and ask him if I could know where Mr. Aniket Pandya can be found. The man leads me to front desk, and the woman at the counter tells me directions to the room, informing me that they had been waiting for my arrival. That is strange. Why the hell would they be waiting for me?

"This way, madam." The man says, grasping onto my luggage. I refuse, but the man shakes his head, signaling that it was his duty. I sigh, narrowing my eyes at him as we ride up the elevator.

I follow him to a room on the fifth floor, surveying my surroundings. It was a dark hall, but the decor seems like a nineteenth century architect had built it with the fancy lighting and the ancient carpets and the yellowish walls. The man stops, turns on his heals and knocks on a oak door. I shove the porter/greeter out of my way, waiting for the person to open the door.

Once the door parts, revealing the human, I punch the person in the face.

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