Chapter 4: Marriage and Mumbai Nights

Rohan was on a business trip—he didn’t know about Kunal.

He’d left early, suitcase clattering down the stairs. I watched from the balcony, pretending to fuss with the laundry.

So when he called to ask if everything was okay,

I sniffed, forced a smile: "Sab badiya hai, kya ho sakta hai."

I pressed the phone to my ear, trying to sound cheerful though my eyes stung. “Aap ki Priya sab sambhal legi, don’t worry.”

Rohan’s voice was gentle, steady: "Agar kuch bhi ho, mujhe batana. Main sambhal lunga."

My heart twisted. He was so sincere, so… Rohan. The kind who’d cross Mumbai in a rickshaw just because I said I missed him. But against someone like Kunal, what could love do?

In the restaurant bathroom, I covered my eyes.

The tiled walls echoed my sniffles. I dabbed my face with a tissue, not wanting anyone to see my smudged kajal. The cheap rose soap stung my eyes, and the sound of distant laughter from the dining hall made me feel even more alone.

Rohan was just an ordinary, hardworking man. He’d argue with the auto driver over five rupees, but buy me gulab jamun to see me smile. But standing up to Kunal? That was like throwing a stone at a BMW.

I urged him to sleep early, but my voice caught. I cleared my throat, blaming the spicy gravy.

He paused, voice suddenly sharp: "Priya, kya hua?"

I quickly hung up.

My fingers fumbled with the edge of my dupatta, the silver thread catching on a broken nail. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping the panic would wash away too.

Kunal and my boss had set a trap. I thought it was a normal meeting, but when I arrived, Kunal was the client.

My stomach dropped. My boss pretended to check WhatsApp, refusing to meet my eyes.

There were colleagues around; walking out would make a scene.

Everyone watched, judging. In India, log kya kahenge isn’t a joke—it’s a curse.

Kunal enjoyed my discomfort, his eyes glinting with mischief. He leaned in, voice dripping with fake concern, asking about my family, my marriage—his gaze sliding down my arm. I forced a polite smile, dying inside.

During the second half, he kept topping up my glass, nudging it closer. "Ek sip toh le, Priya. Old times ke liye." I wanted to slap him, but I needed this job more than my self-respect.

When dinner ended, I grabbed a chance to slip out, pretending to take a call. I clutched my dupatta, hurrying down the corridor.

But someone caught my wrist, pulling me back hard.

A chill ran through me. His grip was tight, almost bruising. I stiffened.

"Soch rahi thi, main nahi pakadunga?" Kunal’s voice teased above my head. He ran his thumb along my cheek, his grin as shameless as a filmi villain’s.

His breath reeked of Old Monk. I turned my face away, struggling to break free.

I glared, about to snap: “Besharam! Chhod de mujhe, warna—”

Suddenly, a harsh beam of headlights sliced through the night.

I shielded my face, startled. For a second, Mumbai’s chaos seemed to pause.

A sleek Audi stopped across the street, rear window rolling down. Arjun’s face appeared, all sharp angles and impatience, the sort of presence you feel before you see. For a second, I wondered if I was imagining him.

Our eyes met, and my heart dropped.

A cold wave washed over me. All my secrets felt exposed in that instant.

After that call, I’d lost hope he would help. How had he come to Mumbai?

I blinked, trying to process it. But Arjun had always been the sort who could appear anywhere—like a bad habit you can’t shake.

I took a deep breath, yanking my wrist free. Anger surged; I found the strength to pull away, red marks burning my skin.

Kunal’s confidence evaporated. "Un... uncle?" he stammered, all bravado gone.