Dhruve thought he had it all: a loving wife, a successful career, and a life he’d built against all odds. Every day, the simple words "Welcome home, dear" from his wife were his personal heaven, erasing the grind of the world. Three years of blissful marriage, a defiant victory over family objections, had convinced him he’d cracked life’s code.

Then came the morning he forgot his phone.

Rushing back home during his lunch break, eager to see her face and retrieve his forgotten device, Dhruve’s world shattered. Through a barely ajar bedroom door, he heard it: his wife’s familiar laugh, intertwined with the unmistakable grunts of another man. The woman he loved, the sanctuary he called home—both brutally violated.

Frozen, reeling from betrayal, Dhruve chose silence over explosion. He captured damning proof, then walked away, a ghost in his own house. The rage was searing, but beneath it, a chilling resolve began to form. He wouldn't scream; he would plot. He wouldn't break; he would rebuild—a calculated, precise revenge.

"Welcome Home, Stranger." is a gripping tale of love, betrayal, and the meticulous unraveling of a life built on a lie. When heaven shatters, and fury turns cold, how far will a man go to reclaim his narrative and make his betrayer stand naked in the unforgiving light of truth? This isn't just a story of revenge; it's a slow-burning engine of retribution, fueled by small, surgical cuts, until there's nothing left to feed.

That night I almost broke. I sat in the kitchen, phone glowing with screenshots, shaking with the urge to storm into the bedroom and scream. To drag her out, to shout, "I know, damn it! I know everything!"


But I didn't. I gripped the table until my nails hurt. Rage is fire. Fire burns you before it burns them if you don't cage it.


So I wrote instead. Pages of curses, bile, pure venom in my diary. Words like "fuck," "damn," "whore," poured out. Ugly words for an ugly truth. My hand cramped. My throat ached from holding screams.


By dawn, the storm had cooled. The rage hadn't gone—it never goes—but it was bottled, labeled, stored for later use. Rage can be a weapon if sharpened.


I walked into the bedroom, looked at her sleeping like innocence itself. My chest ached. I whispered one word before leaving for work:


Chapter 18 - Rage Control