Chapter 1: The Honest Wife and the Playboy Husband

I swear, I’m the most honest person you’ll ever meet.

And yet, here I am—living the life of a top-class playboy’s wife!

A year later—

He started coming home later and later, the contempt in his eyes growing sharper each time he glanced my way.

One night, I overheard him saying to someone:

"What right does such an ordinary woman have to make me settle down?"

I let out a long sigh of relief.

That’s wonderful!

Otherwise, what excuse would I have to ask for a divorce?

Honest people are always like this—thinking of others first, even when we’re the ones getting stepped on!

Sometimes, I just have to laugh at my own luck. In India, people think honesty means you’re a pushover. But maybe, just maybe, we honest types know exactly when to step aside.

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In the middle of the night—

Arjun, who hadn’t shown his face for two months—not even for our wedding anniversary—finally came home!

I’m half-asleep, turning over when suddenly—my breath catches as Arjun steps inside, the perfume hitting me before he even says a word. The faint click of his leather shoes on the tiles mixes with the soft flicker of the hallway light as he passes. My nose wrinkles at the sharp scent—loud, flashy, and over-the-top. Just like Arjun himself.

But this was women’s perfume.

I struggle to turn my head and there he is—face so handsome it’s almost unreal. His Adam’s apple, sticking out like a guava seed, bobs as he swallows; his abs could flatten a sack of rice; his biceps curve perfectly beneath his shirt sleeve.

His eyes burn with something wild, like he wants to set the whole room on fire.

No wonder he topped Mumbai Mirror’s “Most Eligible Bachelor” list five years running!

The whole city—from Bandra aunties to Andheri college girls—gossiped about Arjun’s charm. Even my chachi, who rolls her eyes at filmi heroes, once sighed, "Wah, kya ladka hai!"

When Arjun sees me, his movements pause, the fire in his eyes cooling. His gaze clears a bit, but he doesn’t stop.

Everywhere he touches feels like it’s under a harsh spotlight, my skin prickling with goosebumps.

I instinctively want to escape.

I call out, trying to sound playful: "Arre, you’re back already?"

I pitch my voice higher, teasing: "Arjunji, itni jaldi aa gaye?"

“I missed you so much. I missed you so much I didn’t even eat dinner!”

That does it—Arjun’s interest vanishes completely.

He stops, gets out of bed, and reaches for a cigarette on the nightstand.

He mutters, “Are you three years old? Can’t you eat by yourself?”

For a moment, something old and sore flickers inside me—a memory of Amma’s voice, warning, "Never trouble your husband, Priya." I bury it with my best practiced smile, the kind I’ve worn since childhood. I quietly let out a sigh of relief. That ridiculous excuse—"I missed you too much"—always works.

Logically, a man like Arjun, who’s played the field for so long, should see through my act. But I’d always acted like I loved him to death.

Three years I chased him, watched him swap girlfriends like kurtas, and never gave up.

Arjun once called me the most persistent chamchi he’d ever met.

That stung, but I guess it was true. Like the steel spoon in every Indian kitchen—always present, always there, taken for granted. Maybe I was a little like that.

I roll over, trying to sleep.

Arjun goes out to the balcony to smoke. I hear the faint click of the sliding glass door, and pause by the half-open balcony, the city’s night sounds drifting in—auto horns, distant laughter, the murmur of a TV somewhere below. His voice drifts through the glass:

“Bhaiya Arjun, you’ve been gone so long—staying loyal to your wife now?”

Arjun sneers, “What right does such an ordinary woman have to make me settle down?”

“Honestly, the first time, I could barely even kiss her.”

The guy on the other end bursts out laughing.

Arjun snaps, “It’s the middle of the night, keep your voice down—people are sleeping!”

In this colony, the aunties are sharp-eared, and even the security guard will gossip if he catches a whisper. Even at this hour, nothing escapes notice.

Just as I’m about to drift off, Arjun finishes his smoke and comes back in. He sets a small box by my pillow. I force my eyes open and glance at it.

The velvet box feels cool in my palm. For a second, I almost believe he’d chosen them just for me. Inside is a pair of diamond earrings—very pretty. If I hadn’t seen that the matching necklace from this collection cost ten times as much, I’d never have guessed these earrings were just a freebie with the necklace.

But I’m not angry. Actually, I feel a faint sense of anticipation. It’s been a year. Since marrying me, Arjun really did seem to settle down. Finally, he was about to lose control. And so was I.

Under the soft whirr of the ceiling fan, I look at the earrings, the stones catching the sodium-yellow glow from the streetlamp outside, sparkling like tiny diyas. For a brief moment, they look like a pair of flickering diyas in the dark, promising something new.