Chapter 2: The Distance Between Us

I looked at Kabir Mehra’s handsome, cold face on the screen. For a moment, I felt an indescribable sense of loss.

On the LED TV, he looked even more distant—a man born to command, the crispness of his ironed suit matched only by the steel in his gaze. All those years of loving him, wishing he'd look at me with the warmth he reserved for his work, suddenly felt like a childish daydream.

He has a cold personality, famously reserved and calculating, his emotions never revealed.

People in his business circle called him "Mehra Saab"—not out of respect, but out of a little fear. Even at family weddings, he sat quietly at the corner, checking his phone instead of joining the antakshari games. His rare smiles never reached his eyes.

But he isn’t as the world imagines—a self-restrained workaholic. In truth, Kabir Mehra has always had strong desires, and his needs in that regard are considerable.

It was something only I knew: behind closed doors, he was never the ascetic others imagined. There was a wildness in him, a hunger, as if he was trying to lay claim to something that was always slipping away. The rest of the world saw only the mask.

Before business trips, he would ignore my tears and pleas. He’d wrap his tie around my wrists—sometimes gentle, sometimes rough—pulling me close as if trying to keep me from slipping away.

Those nights before he left, I’d plead for him to stay just a little longer, but he only grew rougher—his hands urgent, breath hot against my ear. The soft whir of the ceiling fan and the city’s distant din would fade, replaced by the tangle of sheets and the intensity of his presence.

Later, I couldn’t help but bite his neck. There should still be a bite mark there now.

I used to press my lips to his skin, leaving tiny bruises, marks only I could see. I imagined the world would know, somehow, that he belonged to me, even if only in secret.

The dark blue tie with subtle patterns he wore was a gift I’d carefully chosen for our anniversary.

I remember fussing over the gift, choosing the perfect shade at that little shop near Linking Road, wrapping it myself instead of letting the maid do it. The tie felt like a silent promise between us.

This is our fourth year of marriage.

Four years of hidden smiles, whispered arguments behind locked doors, and shared cups of morning chai that never left a trace in the outside world.

We have a lovely daughter. She just turned three.

Pari, with her mop of curly hair and quicksilver giggle, the only real proof of our union. She was my world, the one person who made all the shadows worth it.

But now, my so-called husband, Kabir Mehra, used the coldest, most serious tone to publicly clarify in front of the media:

"There’s no secret marriage, no daughter. Everyone knows—Kabir Mehra has always been single."

It felt like watching someone drive a nail into the last bit of hope I had. The way he spoke—steady, no tremor—left no room for doubt.

He raised his hand and pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses on his high nose bridge. In the depths of his dark eyes was a chilling light, as if it cut through the camera and landed coldly on my face.

His gesture, so habitual, reminded me of all the times he adjusted those very glasses while signing contracts or reading bedtime stories to Pari—never letting emotion betray him.

"I advise those with ulterior motives: don’t entertain wild ideas, and don’t bring disgrace upon yourselves."

In the drawing room, the echo of his warning seemed to bounce off the pale cream walls. I could almost hear the neighbours clucking their tongues and whispering, 'Dekha, I told you he wouldn’t accept her.'