Chapter 3: Kunal’s Pursuit

Kunal Choudhary—Mumbai’s notorious playboy, barely in his twenties, always living it up and acting like rules were for someone else.

In Bandra’s club circuit, everyone knew him. He’d swagger in wearing branded kurtas, friends trailing behind, laughing at his every joke. His surname alone could get him into any restaurant, any time.

We first met at a friend’s dinner. The whole meal, his eyes never left my face, like he was weighing a gold chain at Tanishq. Aditi jabbed my knee under the table: “Fan ho gaya, haan!” I rolled my eyes, already dreading the drama.

After dinner, Kunal’s assistant slid me a hotel room key tucked in a napkin, like a cheap movie plot. His look said: ‘You’re not the first, and definitely not the last.’

I pushed it right back, voice flat and loud enough for the table: “Beta, apna card apne paas rakh. Aur attitude bhi.” The assistant winced, but Kunal just grinned wider, like he’d found a new game.

But for him, that was just the start.

For three months, he waited outside my office every evening, flowers in hand, creating a scene.

Colleagues started whispering, the pantry went silent when I entered, even the security uncle shot me pitying looks like I was in some daily soap.

I paid Bhaskar, our office boy, a little extra to pass Kunal the message: I was married, please leave me alone. Bhaskar came back shaking his head, saying, “Didi, yeh banda toh full bindass hai. Shaadi ka bhi darr nahi hai!”

But Kunal only got bolder. He even tried to poach me as his personal secretary.

He sent massive, gaudy flower bouquets to my house, making my landlord curse about pests. I began to dread the sound of the doorbell.

Gossip is a cancer. If this kept up, I’d lose my job.

Even our HR aunty cornered me in the lift: “Priya beta, aise ladkon se door raho. Tumhare mummy-daddy kya kahenge?” I wanted to tell her my parents never cared, but just nodded along.

Thinking of all this, I blurted, "Kunal’s family is in mining. Shady types. Only you can keep him in check."

"You want me to handle him?" Arjun’s tone was casual, but his words cut. "Aur tumhara pati? Kya woh mar gaya hai?"

His words stung like mirchi in a fresh cut. I nearly dropped the phone.

My mind blanked out for a moment.

"He... he’s just a simple man like me. Nothing special."

A cold laugh came from Arjun, mocking.

That laugh burned my ears. Even after all these years, he could shrink me to nothing—like a little girl playing grown-up in a borrowed saree.

Kunal, for all his swagger, was just a nouveau riche brat. He’d never make it into Arjun’s world.

Arjun was a third-generation Delhi big shot. Power, money—he had it all. Even Mumbai’s big fish were like ants before him.

I bit my lip, searching for words. But nothing came. What could I say to a man who’d stared down politicians and police and walked away smiling?

Then, a woman’s voice floated through the phone: "Arjun, kis se baat kar rahe ho?"

There was a faint jingle of bangles, the swish of a designer dupatta. The new woman in his life—no doubt.

Arjun lied smoothly: "Business partner hai."

His voice was all business, but I pictured him smoothing his face into that perfect mask.

She wasn’t convinced. "Dikhao toh zara…"

"Arey, kuch nahi. Drama mat karo," he said, voice soft, the indulgence in his tone something I’d once thought was just for me.

I hung up fast, my hands and feet cold.

The phone slipped from my grip, clattering to the mosaic floor. I crouched, feeling as fragile as that glass bangle I’d broken last Diwali.