Chapter 2: The Interview

That afternoon, Kunal was brought to my office.

The AC was humming, and the scent of jasmine from the reception desk floated in as Meera knocked politely before entering. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the twelfth floor, shining on his Balenciaga T-shirt, Yohji Yamamoto trousers, and Louis Vuitton sneakers.

Fake.

Even from a distance, the logo on his tee was just a little off-centre, the stitching a tad loose—details only the truly moneyed notice. Even the security guard outside probably clocked the chalu logos, but Kunal walked in like he owned the place. I could almost hear my cousin snorting, "Arrey, who buys such chalu maal these days?" Still, Kunal’s posture was full of confidence, chin up as if he owned the place.

Fake.

And fake again.

But I’ll give him this—he had a good-looking face.

His features were sharp, the kind you’d see in matrimonial ads, but his smile was practiced. It reminded me of the models at Lakmé Fashion Week—good lighting, perfect teeth, but nothing behind the eyes. Not like Arjun, who had a cool, clear air about him, with pride running deep in his bones.

Kunal looked like something mass-produced, like a Bollywood actor after too many surgeries: sharp features, a bit cheap, and a cunning glint in his eyes. His hair was as slick as the coconut oil ads on TV, and his skin glowed with the effort of three layers of fairness cream.

If you put him in a crowd at Lokhandwala, he’d fit right in. There was a slickness, a little too much hair gel, a whiff of Axe deodorant. But after too much gourmet fare, sometimes you just crave wild boar—raw, untamed, with a flavor you can’t fake.

Since they’re all here to sell themselves anyway, why pick someone who acts like it’s beneath him?

That’s the problem with Arjun—he carried his pride like a monkey on his back. Kunal, on the other hand, looked ready to do anything for a shot at Mumbai’s gold-plated dreams.

As soon as Kunal opened his mouth, I knew I’d found the right guy.

"I heard you want me to call you ‘Mummy’?"

He cocked his head with a half-smirk, like a TV actor playing the role of the naughty younger man. "Should I just say it straight out?"

He really knew how to play the part.

I almost laughed. This was the kind of banter you hear at house parties in Juhu, all bravado and zero shame. But I wasn’t about to play along.

With guys like him, today he’ll want me to launch his career, tomorrow he’ll ask for connections to land a lead role, and the next day he’ll get caught as a sugar baby and beg me to cover up the scandal.

Just my type. Absolutely my type.

There was a moment of wicked satisfaction, like finding the perfect saree after weeks of searching. I ignored him and flipped through the folder Secretary Meera had brought.

He was from a small town in one of the many districts—his family wasn’t poor, actually better off than Arjun’s, whose father drank and mother was addicted to teen patti.

Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to come from a place where your parents aren’t always one step away from selling the family gold. His family had a small business, according to the file—sweet shop, maybe.

His grades were mediocre, nowhere near Arjun’s level.

But he was actually five centimetres taller than Arjun.

Height always matters, doesn’t it? Especially when you’re parading someone in front of the society crowd at those fundraisers. I looked up at him; he flashed a grin, showing all his teeth.

Good-looking, sure, but a bit too eager to please.

I curled my lip, a little put off.

"How many people have you been with? Men or women?"

Kunal didn’t even blink, not a hint of embarrassment.

"Just you."

He said it with a straight face, but there was a twinkle in his eye. It was the kind of lie you tell a police inspector when you know he won’t bother to check the CCTV footage. Yeah, right.

I said, "Secretary Meera will take you to the hospital for a full check-up. If everything’s fine, come see me in a week."

"Okay, madam."

He left in high spirits.

He practically skipped out, brushing past the potted plant near the door. As he turned, I couldn’t help but notice that perky backside—like the sculpted idols at Siddhivinayak, almost too perfect to be real.

I wondered for a couple of seconds—was it padded or not?