Chapter 2: Club Shadows and Cracked Bangles

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Three days after that ugly scene, Arjun posted a photo on his Insta story: my best friend pouting at him, while he flashed a V sign at the camera. Behind them, the Gateway of India glowed golden in the distance, a silent witness to their performance.

The caption was casual, almost flippant, but I could read the subtext. In our circle, every Insta story was a public statement—an announcement for all the mutual friends, school batchmates, and society aunties.

"I really like women who get jealous for me. They’re so cute."

I set my phone aside and buried myself in work. After the procedure, I’d need at least half a month to recover, so I had to finish everything I could now.

The sharp clack of my laptop keys mingled with the clang of a steel tumbler in the kitchen and the high-pitched whistle of a neighbor’s pressure cooker. I scribbled to-do lists on yellow notepads, ignoring the ache in my lower back. Outside, the city throbbed with life, but inside, time stood still.

My phone vibrated—Ma calling to check if I’d eaten. I lied, "Haan, Ma, sab theek hai. Khana kha liya." My voice was steady, but my throat was tight. The familiar Indian ritual of mothers fussing over food only made my loneliness sharper.

The barrage was indignant:

My cousin’s wife and my boss’s secretary flooded my DMs with their judgments. In India, a woman’s silence is always read as guilt.

"Is the heroine crazy? At a time like this, she’s still working? Is she really going to give up her husband for her job?"

"The hero loves her so much, but she’s so cold—she doesn’t deserve him."

"Honestly, if she just admitted she was jealous, everything would be fine. Wouldn’t a happy family of three be better? Is it so hard to admit it?"

But sometimes, strength in Mumbai means just refusing to fold, even as your own mind shouts at you to break.

Just then, Arjun’s elder brother called, his voice frantic over the static and background shouts. Glasses clinked, laughter echoed. My heart lurched—Arjun’s family never called unless it was urgent.

"Bhabhi, come quick, Arjun bhaiya is in trouble!"

A crash—like a whisky bottle shattering—then silence.

The chill in my spine was old, familiar. How many times had I cleaned up Arjun’s messes, shielding the truth from our families? My legs were heavy, but I picked up my purse anyway.

At the club, the scent of expensive perfume, whisky, and cold air from the AC hit me, clashing with the faint coconut oil in my hair and the dryness of my skin. I felt like an outsider in my own city, my middle-class roots showing beneath the gloss.

The bouncers barely glanced at me—I was Arjun’s wife, after all. The plush carpets muffled my steps as laughter spilled from the private room.

"Arjun bhaiya, it’s been ages. Will your workaholic wife really show up?"

"Bhabhi chased after Arjun bhaiya for over twenty years before she caught him. Of course she’ll come."

"She didn’t even react to that post. Anyway, if Arjun bhaiya loses, he can’t go back on his word—he owes me that Khar project."

The Khar project—I’d slogged for a year, even gone to the office with a saline drip when I had a fever, just to keep it on track. He knew all this, and now, for a bet, he wanted to give it away.

I remembered those monsoon mornings, dragging myself to work with wet shoes and fever, eating vada pav at my desk while spreadsheets blurred before my eyes.

Peeking through the door crack, I saw Arjun tense, staring at his phone, his knuckles white. His old college friends sprawled on the sofas, laughter echoing off marble walls.

I entered, and all eyes snapped to me—some disappointed, some surprised. Arjun exhaled, relief flickering before his mask returned. Friends exchanged glances; one rolled his eyes.

"You all lost."

Luxury car keys, yacht passes, and diamond watches cluttered the table. Arjun smirked, "I have plenty of these—who cares?"

The bravado was thin. Some of these men would sell their own mothers for a Rolex.

"Yeah, yeah, you have a wife who loves you more than life. We don’t."

The laughter was edged with envy. I felt distant, like I was watching someone else’s drama.

"Just don’t end up driving her away."

Arjun’s face darkened. To prove a point, he pulled Sneha close, his arm around her waist, beckoning me with a flourish.

The gesture was pure theatre. Sneha’s smile was smug, her lipstick too red. The silence was brittle with anticipation.

The barrage:

"The heroine should throw a fit, fight with the supporting girl for the hero. That way, he’ll look good in front of his friends."

"Honestly, isn’t the hero going too far? He’s married, and the heroine is pregnant."

"You don’t get it. This is love, okay? If the heroine weren’t so stubborn, the hero wouldn’t resort to such extremes."

"Our hero only slept with a woman for the first time two months ago, and still hasn’t touched the heroine since."

Three years of marriage. Two months ago was the first time he touched me—and I got pregnant immediately.

My hand drifted to my belly, the irony cutting deep. Did anyone in this room understand what this meant for me?

I rested my palm over the slight swell, fingers tightening.

The silence thickened. Everyone watched, waiting for drama, for tears, for a scene.

I could almost hear my mother: "Don’t create a scene, beta. Everyone is watching."

But I held my gaze steady.

"Arjun, how old are you? Can you stop being so childish?"

My words sliced through the tension. Someone snorted, another coughed. Arjun’s hand fell away from Sneha’s waist.

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After half a month of silent war, only Party A’s signature was needed for the year-long project to go through. Another power cut gripped the city that evening, the office generator thrumming outside as I checked contract clauses by torchlight, eyes burning. I whispered to myself: just one last push.

But Arjun arrived at the dinner meeting with Sneha on his arm, as if nothing was amiss. She wore a new silk sari, her perfume drowning out even the roasted papad. My stomach twisted.

"Sneha’s joined the company now—she’s not an outsider. After this project is signed, let her shadow you and learn."

He said it with that careless tone, as if offering me a box of kaju katli instead of an insult.

Sneha flashed a sweet smile. "Meera di, we can be best friends again."

Her voice dripped with fake innocence, her eyes sparkling with victory. The past lay between us like broken glass.

My brow twitched, anger simmering. I clenched my glass, breathing slow—one, two, three.

College memories flashed—late-night chai, shared jokes, the way she always managed to be near Arjun. The betrayal burned fresh, her presence always a wedge.

I nearly snapped, about to tell Arjun to take her and leave, when Party A entered—businesslike, quick handshakes, scanning for allies. I straightened my sari, forced my best corporate smile.

"Namaste, Party A. Please, have a seat." My voice was calm, my palms slick with sweat. I ordered chai and starters, feigning normalcy.

During drinks, I tried to signal Arjun to help block a round, but he ignored me, his face cold, eyes glued to his phone.

The barrage:

"Oh, the hero’s jealous—his wife is smiling at another man!"

"Don’t be ridiculous, that’s Party A."

I kept my composure, managing Party A myself. Seeing my competence, he warmed up after two drinks, laughing at a demonetisation joke, finally relaxing.

"Ms. Meera, your company’s design is really innovative this time. I have high hopes—you’re a person of integrity. Let’s make some real money together."

His praise made my cheeks flush. I lifted my glass, confidence flickering. "Absolutely."

Just then, Sneha shrieked—her wine glass slipped, splashing red across Party A’s shirt. Silence crashed down. My heart dropped.

"I’m not some bar hostess."

She glared at me, her words loud, her meaning sharp. I bit my lip, handed Party A a napkin, apologising profusely.

He dabbed at his shirt with a crisp handkerchief, muttering, "Nazar lag gayi, kya…" before fixing me with a cold stare.

Arjun seized my wrist, his voice cutting. "Meera, you’re a married woman. Don’t do such degrading things. Tumhe sharam nahi aati?"

My cheeks flamed with humiliation and rage.

Party A stood, furious. "Ms. Meera, I think we’d better not work together."

In that instant, a year’s work evaporated.

I slumped, numb. Sneha whispered, "It’s better this way. I hate these gross men. If I had a husband, I’d never come out and fake a smile."

She reached for Arjun’s hand, her voice syrupy.

My anger boiled over. I stood and slapped Sneha, hard, the sting echoing in my palm.

Gasps erupted, someone whispering, "Arre, kya kar rahi hai?" as the room reeled from the shock.

For a half-second, memories of college—shared jokes, nights whispering secrets over chai—flashed through my mind. The betrayal burned sharper, the slap a release I didn’t know I needed.

"Get out."

My voice was ice.

Sneha’s face reddened, eyes brimming with tears. "Arjun…"

I raised my hand again, but Arjun caught my wrist—his grip gentler, searching.

"Why did you hit her?"

His voice was softer, but the accusation lingered between us.