Chapter 2: Trouble in Mumbai

A few years later, a second-generation Mumbai rich kid took a shine to me and wouldn’t let go.

Rich brat is too soft a word—Kunal Choudhary, famous from Colaba to Juhu, was a real pest, acting like the city was his baap ka garden. He’d show up in an imported car, reeking of sandalwood and entitlement, his eyes stuck to my waist like Fevicol.

Desperate, I dialled Arjun Malhotra’s number.

I waited, thumb trembling above the call button as the ceiling fan creaked and the pressure cooker whistled in the kitchen. Only true desperation could make me break that silence.

"Why do you keep rejecting him?" Arjun sounded amused, the old Delhi drawl in his voice. "Kya baat hai, pasand nahi aaya kya?"

For a second, I was seventeen again, caught in his gravity.

I sighed. "I’m already married."

The words landed heavy in my mouth—bitter, final, as if saying them aloud would make them truer than I wanted.

1.

There was a long silence.

I clutched my phone, my knuckles aching, the fridge humming too loudly behind me. I didn’t dare pace; the wooden floorboards would rat me out.

"Kab hua yeh sab? Mujhe bataya bhi nahi?" Arjun’s voice was calm, every syllable crisp. Not a flicker of anger or jealousy, just a subtle tension—like a silk saree’s whisper in a quiet hall.

"Mm."

Who tells their ex-sugar daddy about their shaadi?

I almost laughed, swallowing the urge. "Should I have sent you a wedding invite?" Instead, I kept my reply dry, hiding the way my throat burned.

I forced a laugh. "Just got the certificate, yaar. Family-arranged match. So ordinary, I didn’t want to disturb you."

A nervous giggle slipped out. Truthfully, it was nothing—a few signatures at the registrar, a marigold garland, a thali for lunch. But I made it sound even duller, like it barely deserved mention.

Another pause.

Arjun spat out three words, sharp as a slap: "Acha, theek hai."

In the background, I heard the snap of his old Zippo lighter—flick, shut, flick, shut—over and over. That sound was so Arjun. Even now, I pictured him: one hand on his thigh, eyes narrowed, flicking that lighter as if he could burn away his annoyance. He was the kind who’d never shout, but his silence could fill the whole room.

I stared at my toes, not daring a word. My anklets jingled, betraying my nerves. I wanted to melt into the cracked floor tiles.

This call was a big risk.

After all this time, I was married and he had someone new. If Kunal Choudhary hadn’t become such a pain, I would never have disturbed him again.

The guilt tasted like old filter coffee, left to stew too long. I nearly wished I hadn’t called.