Chapter 3: Public and Private Wars

Arjun would never embarrass me in front of others. He’s always known how to control his emotions, so he suggested we go home. If there’s a problem, we solve it privately. That’s been our unspoken rule for years.

"She’s just a recent college graduate, just entering the workforce. Why take it out on her?"

Arjun pulled me into his arms. I could feel his steady heartbeat, his warmth trying to calm my own storm.

"It’s the first time."

He looked puzzled. "What is?"

"After all these years, it’s the first time you’ve let another woman sit in your passenger seat."

He hadn’t realised this was what I cared about.

Everyone in our circle knows how outstanding Arjun is. There are countless women who like him, but he’s always kept himself clean. He’s surrounded by temptation, but not a single flower has ever touched him.

It’s almost become a running joke—at parties, my friends tease me, "Priya, you’re so lucky, your Arjun sir is like a saint!" And I’d always smile, confident in the invisible line he’d drawn around our marriage.

Arjun smiled faintly, ruffling my hair.

“So you do get jealous.”

He leaned over and kissed me, the tip of his nose brushing my cheek. The gesture was soft, familiar, meant to melt my anger the way only he could.

“She’s just my subordinate. That’s all. There will never be anything else between us.”

He cupped my face, looking into my eyes, and gave me his promise in a low, steady voice. The kind of promise a man makes not just with words, but with the conviction of his entire being.

A woman’s intuition is rarely wrong.

No matter how educated or modern we pretend to be, deep down, we trust those gut feelings more than any logical explanation. My dadi used to say, “Aurat ki soojh-boojh kabhi galat nahi hoti.”

Even though I’d only met Sneha once, I could tell she had other intentions towards Arjun.

Her glances, her calculated sweetness—these things do not escape a wife’s notice. I thought my warning would be enough, but the next day, the necklace from the auction—meant for me—was hanging around her neck.

Kavita, Arjun’s chief assistant, sent me a photo and a screenshot of a WhatsApp status.

In the photo, a crescent-shaped diamond necklace rested on Sneha’s fair neck, making her look even sweeter and more charming.

Her eyes were red and swollen, but there was a smile on her lips. She must have cried hard after going home last night—and then received a gift from someone. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.

The screenshot was of Sneha’s post:

[Sir said, girls must be strong even when wronged.]

[Wipe away the tears. Yes, sir, my boss.]

A few cute fist-pump emojis, and a picture of the necklace in its box. It was all a bit much—like something out of those melodramatic WhatsApp forwards the aunties love to circulate.

At that moment, my blood almost froze.

As much as I hated to admit it, I was so provoked I nearly lost my composure. The feeling was unbearable, like a new silk saree ruined by a careless splash of chai.

My throat felt dry, and for a moment, I wanted to march into Arjun’s office and drag that necklace off her neck myself. My mind raced with thoughts of public confrontations and dramatic scenes, but I forced myself to take a breath. I remembered my own upbringing—dignity first, drama never.

It was a strange feeling for me. I even wanted, regardless of the facts, to drive my yellow Audi at 180 kilometres an hour just to confront that woman in person.

But looking at my own hand, I thought it was beneath me to stoop to the level of such a petty drama queen.

Instead, I called Ritu at Sabyasachi.

Ritu sounded delighted, barely able to hide her excitement.

"Mrs Arjun, don’t worry. Even if I have to empty the store, I’ll gather all the necklaces and make sure they’re delivered to you."

So that day, before the end of work, every executive assistant and female staff member in the president’s office at Arjun Group headquarters—except Sneha—a total of forty-six people, received a lavish gift from the president’s wife:

A Sabyasachi necklace worth 1,20,000 rupees each.

The price didn’t match the two-million-rupee auction necklace, but the quantity made up for it. It was fair to everyone. In true Indian style, I believed in giving everyone their due, but never letting anyone think they could outshine the lady of the house.

Kavita handled it perfectly. She required everyone to post on Instagram with the caption:

[The boss’s wife says every girl deserves better.]

[Clench your fists. Yes, ma’am, my boss’s wife.]

The office WhatsApp group exploded with selfies—forty-six women grinning, necklaces glinting, captions full of emojis and inside jokes. The recipients were, of course, happy to comply. As assistants and president’s office staff, they’re the gossip hub of the whole company. Now, having received a gift from the boss’s wife, who wouldn’t want to show it off online?

Some clever ones even added: [The boss’s wife really knows how to play.]

The assistants’ influence may not be huge, but their ability to spread news in every department is unmatched. In less than half an hour, the whole company knew the boss’s wife had given out Sabyasachi necklaces. As for the reason, all the WhatsApp groups were buzzing.

Sneha’s face turned ashen. Humiliated, eyes red, she hid in the restroom to take off the diamond necklace. Two colleagues walked in to touch up their makeup, exchanging knowing laughs when they saw her.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to steady her breath before facing the corridor full of stares. Her cheeks burned as she put the necklace back in its box and returned it to Arjun, exactly as it was.

As I watched the Instagram notifications pile up, a message from an unknown number flashed on my screen: You think you’ve won, Mrs. Arjun?