Chapter 1: The Passenger Seat

Arjun came to pick me up.

A whiff of petrol mixed with frying samosas drifted through the open window as Mumbai’s evening pressed in. Somewhere, a distant auto horn blared, and the building watchman’s whistle cut through the air. Even after years of marriage, Arjun kept a certain decorum in public—never any unnecessary closeness. Even at home, he guarded his boundaries. So when he arrived that evening with someone else in the front seat, a cold prickle of dread crawled up my spine. Arjun, who once cared so much about appearances, had let his new secretary sit beside him, right there in the passenger seat. I could already picture Mrs. Mehta from 302 whispering to Mrs. Sharma on the landing: “Arre, did you see? Poor Priya, now she’s sitting in the back like a guest.” In that moment, it hit me—this marriage was slipping away, right in front of my eyes, like water from cupped palms.

That day, Arjun drove over to pick me up. Mumbai’s rush hour was in full swing, the air thick with exhaust and vada pav from the corner stall. When I opened the passenger door, I paused, taken aback. A young, beautiful woman was already there, flashing me a sweet smile. She wore a crisp kurti with skinny jeans, hair tied in a neat ponytail, a delicate gold chain at her throat—typical Mumbai girl, confident but respectful. For a second, I wondered if I’d got into the wrong car.

"Hello, Mrs Arjun."

She greeted me politely, but didn’t move or even pretend to unbuckle. In our society, this kind of casualness from a newcomer would have raised every eyebrow. She just sat there, hands on her handbag, smile unwavering. I adjusted my pallu, suddenly conscious of how tightly I was clutching my purse.

I narrowed my eyes, shifting my gaze to Arjun. He was looking down, answering a call—probably some office crisis, his voice low and measured. If he noticed the tension, he gave no sign. His habit of sidestepping drama was legendary; even in tense moments, he’d pretend not to notice, as if ignoring the problem would make it vanish.

We had planned to attend an art auction together that evening. The invitation was fancy—an exclusive event at the Taj Mahal Palace, something I’d been waiting for. Arjun rarely agreed to such public outings. I’d spent the afternoon choosing my saree, settling on a deep blue silk with silver zari, just a hint of kajal and nude lipstick—hoping he’d notice.

I’d looked forward to this, dressing up just for him, never imagining someone else would be in my seat.

That detail—a stranger in my place—felt like a warning bell in my heart. In our marriage, small rituals mattered. The front seat wasn’t just about comfort; it was about respect, about being seen as the woman of the house. Suddenly, my saree felt heavy, my bangles cold against my skin.

"Hello, Mrs Arjun. My name is Sneha. I’m Mr Arjun’s new assistant."

Her lips curved into a warm smile, dimples showing—she looked especially sweet. There was innocence in her tone, but her self-assurance made me uneasy.

"Sir told me about the auction, so I just requested—please, let me come along, na? I want to see how these things work. I’ll be invisible, promise."

Her words floated in the air, as if she was reciting lines from a TV serial. She said it with such charm anyone else might have forgiven her, but I knew my place, and I knew what was rightfully mine.

My heart instantly sank.

I know this cold, flawless man too well. He always keeps his distance, never lets people get close. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind—don’t let anyone walk over you. I could hear her saying, “Beta, a good husband will never let another woman come close—not even by mistake.”

We got together because of a business alliance. After much consideration, we chose each other.

Ours was never a filmy love story. It was more like a merger—families, businesses, expectations all rolled into one. At our wedding, the uncles and aunties joked I’d be a ‘living widow’—a wife in name only, while he kept his distance.

But after we became a couple, Arjun would hold me gently, and in rare moments of passion, his eyes would even turn slightly red.

In those private moments, he was not the cold CEO, but my Arjun. Once, when we danced in our living room to an old Kishore Kumar song, he’d held me so close I forgot the world.

He once said, "You are my wife. Husband and wife are one—of course you’re different from everyone else."

He’d whispered those words with the city lights twinkling outside. It meant everything to me—being seen, being chosen, being special.

But today, something had changed.