Chapter 3: Breaking Point

I hung up. Didn’t sleep a wink all night.

The moonlight crept across my bedsheet, but I just lay there, eyes open. In the early hours, I finally got up, washed my face with freezing water, and drew a shaky line of kajal under my eyes to hide the puffiness.

With dark circles under my eyes, I arrived at the office. My mind was still blank when the chubby girl came over, eager to gossip about last night.

She was always the first to know who was getting promoted, who was breaking up, whose tiffin smelled the best. She nudged me, her eyes shining with excitement.

"Something definitely happened between Boss Arjun and Secretary Priya last night."

Her voice was hushed, but full of certainty. She leaned in, as if sharing a secret recipe.

I frowned slightly. I just nodded, staring at the oily fingerprint on my tiffin lid.

She continued, "This morning, Boss Arjun’s clothes were all wrinkled, and... he was still wearing yesterday’s outfit. Doesn’t that mean he didn’t go home?"

She waggled her eyebrows, triumphant at her deduction. I wondered if my exhaustion showed, if my pain was as obvious as Arjun’s crumpled shirt.

She went on, "Secretary Priya was late too, and she came in glowing. Usually, she’s so efficient, but today, she looked like a new person."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Some people say she even hummed while making her coffee. Can you imagine?"

I asked, "How so?"

It was almost an automatic response. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but couldn’t help asking.

She thought for a moment. "Brighter, sexier, more delicate... just look for yourself."

She jerked her chin towards the entrance. I looked up, bracing myself.

I looked up and saw Priya walk in wearing a tight, hip-hugging skirt. The skirt was a stunning cobalt blue, hugging her curves in a way that made everyone turn and stare. I remembered the feel of that fabric in my hands, the way Arjun laughed when I tried it on at Linking Road. My breath caught in my throat.

Now it seemed the item had arrived—but the recipient had changed. Something sharp twisted in my chest. The chubby girl didn’t notice, too busy snapping a sneaky photo for her own WhatsApp group.

Priya was in a great mood, asking everyone what they wanted to drink—her treat. Everyone cheered. She ordered filter coffee for the South Indian staff, masala chai for the others, and even offered to buy samosas for the peons. The whole office buzzed, everyone eager to be in her good books.

I sat in the corner, feeling complicated. I tried to bury myself in work, but it didn’t help. I stared at my Excel sheet until the numbers blurred. The air was thick with perfume, gossip, and the faint smell of reheated food.

The canteen’s noise rose and fell—WhatsApp pings, the sizzle of oil from the samosa counter, murmured rumors swirling around me as I poked half-heartedly at my aloo sabzi and chapati, barely tasting a thing.

Priya walked into Arjun’s office carrying several bags of fancy food. Once she went in, she stayed all afternoon.

The sight made my stomach lurch. She’d brought in boxes from a fancy Bandra restaurant—food I’d only tasted on birthdays or anniversaries.

When she finally came out, it was almost time to leave work.

She emerged with her lipstick untouched and a satisfied smile. The entire office looked at her, then at Arjun’s closed cabin, and the meaning was clear.

The chubby girl next to me clicked her tongue, sighing, "Morals are really declining. Why does Secretary Priya have to go after a married man? Ritu, who sits closer to the boss’s cabin, said Secretary Priya jumped right into Boss Arjun’s arms as soon as she went in—almost turned the office into a hotel."

She sent me a photo that Ritu had secretly taken. On my phone screen, Priya was perched on Arjun’s lap, her hand feeding him a piece of cake. The intimacy was undeniable. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me.

No one in the picture looked unhappy. They seemed to fit perfectly together—like two people who belonged to each other.

"I wonder how Boss Arjun’s wife would feel if she saw this," the chubby girl sighed. She looked at me curiously, but I just shrugged, pretending not to care.

Manager Suresh, who sat across from us, frowned. "It’s mutual affection. Why are you all gossiping?"

His tone was sharp, the kind adults use to scold schoolchildren. The whole group fell silent for a second.

The chubby girl didn’t catch his tone and joked, "That’s right. She really is the mistress."

She giggled, but her words were too bold. The tension in the room thickened.

Manager Suresh was annoyed. He tossed a ledger at her. "If you’re so free, finish this. You can’t leave until it’s done."

His face was stern, but I could sense he was secretly annoyed at the casual talk about his old friend.

The chubby girl wilted. Her shoulders slumped, her earlier excitement gone. She mouthed a silent 'sorry' in my direction.

I quietly messaged her: [Manager Suresh and Secretary Priya are old acquaintances—he’s definitely on her side. Don’t say that again.]

She replied with a crying emoji. Her response made me smile, just a little. At least some things hadn’t changed.

I comforted her: [I’ll help you with the ledger. Let’s finish quickly, and I’ll treat you to pani puri.]

Pani puri always made things better. The promise of spicy pani, tangy chutney, and cold steel plates made the overtime seem almost worth it.

She perked up immediately. She replied, "Done, yaar! You’re the best."

That night, after we finally finished the overtime task and were about to go eat pani puri, Manager Suresh stopped us again.

He waved us over, his tone almost apologetic. "Let’s celebrate. Work’s over for the day."

"Thanks for your hard work. Let’s grab some supper together."

He didn’t give us a chance to refuse, taking us to a restaurant near the office.

The little Irani café was buzzing with late-night customers, the smell of keema pav and chai filling the air. We sat in a booth by the window, pretending to enjoy ourselves.

After eating, he led us to a karaoke bar. We didn’t want to go, but as interns, we had little say. Sitting in a dark corner, we just played Ludo King on our phones, so focused we didn’t notice the room filling up.

The air was thick with perfume and the faint smell of whisky. Neon lights flashed above us. Neon lights flickered over a faded Shah Rukh Khan poster near the bar. We kept our heads down, hoping the night would end soon.

Until I heard a familiar voice. It was unmistakable—Arjun’s deep, smooth tone, the one that always made people listen.

I saw Arjun, surrounded by industry bigwigs, sitting at the main seat. He looked at ease, laughter lines crinkling around his eyes, expensive watch gleaming in the lights. It was strange, seeing him like this—so far from the man I once loved.

At first, everyone discussed business. Then, the conversation turned personal—kids, wives, parents, in-laws... and of course, lovers. The clink of ice in glasses, the hum of the city outside, and the low commentary of a cricket match on TV formed a backdrop to their laughter.

The men loosened their ties, poured another round. Their voices grew louder, bolder, no longer afraid of being overheard.

"I saw Priya’s Instagram story—‘lovers finally become family.’ What’s up, Arjun, you finally made Priya yours?"

A round of laughter followed. Someone clapped Arjun on the back, another raised his glass in a mock toast.

I couldn’t help but listen closely. I held my breath, every word sinking in like a stone.

Arjun replied calmly, "You don’t know what happened that day. Priya forced my hand—she threatened to resign if I didn’t want her. She’s been with the company for years, and honestly, we can’t do without her. Of course... you could say I can’t do without her."

His words made my skin crawl. He was talking about Priya as if she was just another business deal, another asset.

"So Priya is willing to be your mistress? Arjun, don’t mess things up for yourself."

One of the older men wagged a finger at him, half-joking, half-serious. The others laughed, but there was an edge to their voices.

"Yeah, you worked so hard to marry that little girl. We all saw it. It’s one thing to have mistresses, but if your wife finds out, won’t she create a scene?"

Another chimed in, voice tinged with amusement. "Careful, Arjun bhai, your wife’s family is no ordinary lot."

"Not necessarily. Priya doesn’t mind, so why should the little girl?"

They all sniggered, as if the idea of a wife objecting was funny.

"After being pampered by Arjun for years, how could she go back to an ordinary life? Even if she finds out about the mistresses, she won’t act out. At least she’s still Mrs. Arjun—her life is secure. She’s somebody."

I could almost hear my mother’s voice: 'People will always talk, beta. You must think about your own izzat.'

Everyone chimed in. The general opinion was, as long as Arjun kept Priya quiet, the wife at home wouldn’t dare make a fuss.

Their laughter echoed in my ears. For them, women were bargaining chips, nothing more.

They even congratulated Arjun on having the best of both worlds.

I gripped my phone tightly, knuckles white. The chubby girl beside me frowned, clearly uncomfortable.

The chubby girl next to me wrinkled her nose in disgust and whispered, "Disgusting," in my ear. Then she added, "Boss Arjun is a jerk, but what they said isn’t wrong either. That little girl hasn’t even graduated, no background, no skills—making a scene would only hurt her. What do you think...?"

She looked at me with pity. I tried to smile, but it felt brittle.

I nodded. "There won’t be a scene. These days, people are civilised."

My voice was steady, but inside I was boiling. I wondered how many women before me had been silenced in the name of 'civility'.

Everything can be handled calmly. Even divorce. In Mumbai, even heartbreak is conducted politely—papers signed, assets divided, and tears wiped away before the milkman arrives in the morning.

At that moment, Arjun set down his glass and spoke.

His voice was louder, as if he wanted the world to hear.

"Sneha is good for nothing but being young. Compared to her, she’s not as intellectual as Priya. But with Priya’s proud nature, who knows how long she’ll put up with this. I’m starting to regret getting married. How much does it cost to keep a young girl? Now, if I get divorced, the loss is too big."

So, he was calculating the cost. I watched him as if from afar. His face, once so familiar, now seemed like a stranger’s. The numbers he spoke of felt colder than the AC in the karaoke bar.

Yes, Arjun and I were legally married. Divorce would mean splitting his assets acquired after marriage. But as Arjun wished, I could leave with nothing. Still, the price he’d pay for me leaving with nothing—he’d have to bear that, too.

He had no idea what losing me would really cost him in this city.

When the crowd finally dispersed, Priya picked up the drunken Arjun. I watched from a distance as the two of them embraced, lips pressed together. Maybe they’d been holding back for too long—once they got in the car, it started rocking up and down.

It was a scene straight out of a late-night TV soap, but real, raw, and humiliating. The taxi driver averted his gaze, pretending not to see. I stood in the shadows, unnoticed, recording everything on my phone—my hands steady, my heart not.

I silently recorded everything that had just happened. I made sure every moment was saved—every word, every gesture—just in case Arjun tried to deny it later.

Then, I called my brother.

His contact photo was a goofy selfie from our last family trip to Goa. My finger hovered over the call button for a long moment before I pressed it.

"Little one, what are you up to? How come you have time to call me so late?"

His tone was light, but the concern was immediate. Only an elder brother can sense your pain through a phone line.

My brother’s voice instantly touched the softest part of my heart. Before I could answer, he pulled out a Dairy Milk from his pocket and offered it, just like when we were kids and I’d cried after a scraped knee.

I tried to answer, but my throat closed up. The tears I’d held back all day finally spilled over.

I couldn’t hold back. Tears streamed down my face. The streetlights blurred. I hugged my knees to my chest, sobbing quietly so no one would stare.

"Hey, what’s wrong? Are you crying?"

His voice turned serious. I could hear him getting up, probably already reaching for his car keys.

I choked, unable to speak. My words came out in broken whispers, the kind only siblings can understand.

My brother immediately asked where I was. I mumbled out an address. I could hear the urgency in his voice—he was already on his way, no questions asked.

Half an hour later, he appeared in front of me. He arrived with his trademark leather jacket, scanning the street like a bodyguard from some gangster movie. The night air was cool, but his presence made me feel safe for the first time all day.

I was curled up on the steps by the street, shivering. He took one look at me, swore softly under his breath, and knelt down beside me. I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood and aftershave.

My brother took off his coat and draped it over me, then sat quietly by my side. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t push. He just sat, arms around me, letting me cry until there were no tears left.

"Where’s Arjun?"

His voice was careful, but the anger simmered beneath the surface.

"He cheated."

The words felt like glass in my mouth. My brother went still, his jaw set in a hard line.

My brother froze, jaw clenched. "Where is he? I’ll break his face."

He sounded half-serious, half-ready to storm the city for my sake. But I shook my head, squeezing his hand tightly.

I grabbed my brother’s hand, shaking my head. "No need. That would only dirty your hands."

I tried to sound wise, but my voice trembled. He understood, but I could see the fire in his eyes.

My brother stomped the ground in anger, but still wasn’t satisfied. He muttered something in Hindi—words he’d never say in front of our parents. I managed a weak smile, grateful for his fierce love.

He asked, "Divorce?"

His tone was gentle, but I could tell he was already planning the next steps.

I nodded without hesitation. I was done with Arjun. There was nothing left to salvage.

"Could it be a misunderstanding?"

He still tried, for my sake. But I shook my head and unlocked my phone.

I showed my brother all the videos and photos on my phone. Even though I didn’t say much, my brother had already made up his mind.

He scrolled through the evidence, his face growing darker with each new image. By the end, he was furious, but also oddly calm.

He immediately took out his phone and made several calls. One was to a lawyer friend to draft my divorce agreement. Another was to suppliers connected to Arjun—telling those with unsigned contracts not to sign, those with expiring contracts not to renew, and those with ongoing contracts to revoke discounts and switch to market price.

He switched languages—Hindi, Marathi, English—depending on who he was calling. Each conversation was crisp, decisive. I watched as he methodically dismantled every support Arjun had, brick by brick.

After making the calls, my brother took my hand. "Come on, let’s go home."

He squeezed my fingers, offering the kind of strength only family can give. The street, once so cold and empty, now felt like a lifeline.

I shook my head, tears still clinging to my lashes. "Before going home, I want to move out first."

There was a firmness in my voice he hadn’t heard before. He nodded, understanding without another word.

Without hesitation, my brother drove me to the flat I shared with Arjun. The house was bought by Arjun. I had nothing to miss.

The drive was silent. I stared out the window, watching Mumbai’s neon lights blur past. The flat, once filled with laughter, felt like a stranger’s house now.

I just never thought, after living here for three years, I’d leave like this.

My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. I packed my things in silence, ignoring the framed photos on the wall.

"If you want this flat, I’ll get you the best lawyer to help you fight for it."

My brother’s voice was low, full of resolve. But I shook my head, determination clear in my eyes.

"No need, bhaiya. Anything Arjun’s touched feels dirty to me now."

He put an arm around me as we left. As we stepped out, I heard the distant call of a chaiwala, the city’s life continuing as always. But for me, everything was different—and for the first time, I felt truly free. As the lift doors closed behind me, I realised—I was no longer Mrs. Arjun. And for the first time in years, the city outside felt like it belonged to me.