Chapter 4: Cracks Appear

A few days later, when I went to the interior company to look over the detailed plan, Arjun was working overtime and couldn’t come. He texted, "Sorry yaar, stuck in a meeting. You go ahead, main baad mein dekh loonga." I went anyway, heart heavy.

Meera showed me her design PPT and renderings. She scrolled through slides, her painted nails tapping the mouse. The rooms looked beautiful, glossy, almost too perfect.

I have to admit, the renderings were beautiful.

There were ceiling lamps shaped like lotus flowers, plush sofas in pastel hues, a king-sized bed with an ornate headboard.

But she didn’t seem to understand my preferences or requirements.

Each room felt cold, impersonal—like a showroom, not a home.

So I pointed at the renderings. “Meera, I remember I said before that I don’t like pink, or this kind of romantic European style.”

My words came out more hesitant than I intended. The last thing I wanted was to seem difficult.

She glanced at her notes. “But Mr. Iyer specifically requested this.”

Her tone was polite, but there was a hint of annoyance. I bit my lip.

I felt something was off, but still repeated myself: “I made it very clear last time—I like modern, minimalist style.”

I tried to explain, "Grey tones, simple lines—like those Japanese apartments on Pinterest. You remember, right?"

She gave me a meaningful look and sighed. “Alright, next time please communicate your preferences in advance.”

Her words were clipped, her patience thin. I nodded, the frustration simmering beneath my skin.

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A few days later, Meera posted the newly revised renderings in the WhatsApp group chat.

The group pinged late at night—messages flying between us and Meera, her assistant sprinkling in cheerful emojis. My sleep was already broken, my mind restless.

Arjun came running to ask, “Our house is really suited for European style. The last version was great. You don’t like it?”

He looked genuinely puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t overjoyed. His tone was light, but there was a shadow in his eyes.

Suddenly, I felt deeply hurt. After a year of marriage, this man still didn’t know my likes or dislikes.

It was a small thing, but it felt like a chasm. How could we share a life if he hadn’t even noticed my taste in colours?

Maybe noticing my expression, he quickly changed his tone. “But modern style is good too. You spend more time at home, so whatever you like is fine.”

He tried to soften his voice, reaching for my hand. I pulled away gently, looking out the window at the traffic lights flickering on the street below.

Just then, Arjun’s boss called, and he was called away in a hurry, leaving his laptop open and his WhatsApp chat window still visible.

The TV in the background played an old Amitabh Bachchan film. The world outside went on, but inside, everything felt still.

I saw his chat with Meera was still active.

My eyes darted to the screen. My conscience pricked, but I couldn’t look away.

Meera: “So Ananya doesn’t like European style. Why did you write something else in the notes and make me work overtime to redo everything?”

Her message was blunt, without the usual sugary tone.

Arjun: “Thanks for your hard work. Next time, I’ll treat you to dinner—any restaurant you like.”

He was quick to placate her, his words casual, familiar.

Meera: “I thought so. What a coincidence, her preferences are exactly the same as mine.”

I clenched my fists. What was going on between these two?

Arjun replied evasively: “Yes, I’ve always remembered that you love romantic European houses.”

My ears rang. I could almost hear my heartbeat thudding in my chest.

Meera replied with a blushing emoji.

A small, pink-faced cartoon—so out of place in this business chat.

She continued: “I think your wife is targeting me. She’s very picky and hard to please.”

My face burned. Was I really so unreasonable?

He replied: “Next time, I’ll go with you to discuss the plan. She listens to me, don’t worry.”

His loyalty, at that moment, felt misplaced. My heart ached with disappointment. I stared at the floor tiles, tracing the faded grout lines with my toe, wishing I could scrub away the doubts from my mind as easily.