Chapter 4: Breaking Free

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3

I returned to my rented apartment.

As I stepped inside, the familiar scent of incense and last night’s masala chai hit me. My worn slippers waited by the door. Ninety square metres—small but mine.

Old walls were covered in photos arranged in a heart shape.

Each frame was a memory—birthday cakes, cards, silly selfies, all under the tired yellow tube-light.

Pictures of me and Kabir together.

But every one was secretly snapped and developed by me. He never posed, never let me post about us. Even at Marine Drive, his face was half turned away. The ache in my heart was an old, dull scar.

He never posted about us, always going cold around anniversaries. My friends teased me about being 'hidden.' I laughed it off. Now it stung.

For years, I paid rent, electricity, eating out—everything.

I remembered slipping him my card at restaurants, petrol pumps, while he boasted about 'splitting bills' to his friends. The joke was on me.

I called the landlord, braved the penalty fee, and broke the lease.

The Parsi uncle was surprised but agreed quickly when I offered to forfeit the deposit. I didn’t even haggle.

I threw out what needed to go, packed the rest as fast as I could.

Clothes, books, diaries—into black garbage bags. Only my battered laptop and keepsakes went into the suitcase.

As I packed, someone knocked—heavy and impatient.

I set down my steel dabba of jewellery and opened the door. Kabir and Priya stood there.

Kabir’s arms crossed, his trademark smirk in place. Priya hid behind him, clutching her designer handbag.

'Ananya, are you moving?' Kabir’s voice was loud, daring the neighbours to listen. Priya’s eyes darted around at the half-packed boxes.

Priya hypocritically grabbed my hand. I pulled away, coldly.

Her touch was clammy, her nails digging in. I shook her off, glaring.

Kabir looked at me with open disdain.

His lips curled in disgust, as if he couldn’t believe he’d ever been with me.

'Moving? As far as I know, her dad died years ago. Everything she earned from writing went to pay off his bills.' His words dripped with mockery.

'This place costs twenty thousand a month—she’ll move to some shabby PG.' He said it loud, as if he wanted the whole building to know.

I glared at him. 'What do you want?'

My voice was flat, clipped. No tears for them.

Kabir spoke with open contempt: 'Apologise to Priya. Admit you plagiarised, publicly.'

He sounded like a movie villain. I was done with his script.

A nerve pulsed above my brow. Even the old fridge seemed to hum louder, objecting to his words.

I almost laughed. The shamelessness—only in India, yaar.

'Kabir, tu sach nahi jaanta? You lived off me all these years and now you talk like this?'

My voice rose, anger breaking through. Priya shrank back.

Kabir puffed up, acting the hero. 'Just because you’re a jobless orphan, and Priya is the darling princess. Whatever she wants, I’ll help her get.'

He spat the words out like a mantra. Priya’s chin lifted, pride flickering in her eyes.

'Maybe you don’t know, but Priya’s parents are both teachers. In every way, she’s a hundred times better than you.'

He said it with the certainty of a small man. I almost pitied him.

I saw flashes of the past—college fest, late-night calls, broken promises. It was all a lie.

He only knew I was from a single-parent family and thought I moved out because of my mom. He never knew the truth.

But he didn’t know my mother is the South Asia CEO of a multinational corporation.

After my father passed, he left us a nine-figure inheritance.

If I hadn’t stayed here to avoid inheriting the family business,

I would have been someone Kabir could never dream of meeting.

Seeing me silent, Kabir sneered and went on:

'Some people are born princesses. Some, no matter how hard they try, are just maids who’ll never see the light.'

I let the insult wash over me. I’d heard worse from kitty party aunties.

'If I were you, I’d slink away and leave everything here to Priya.'

He gestured at my things, acting as if he was doing me a favour.

'Why are you still standing there? Get on Instagram and apologise, or don’t blame me for what happens next—'

He reached for my phone, his voice rising. Priya’s eyes glimmered, her camera ready.

But I raised my hand and slapped Kabir hard across the face.

The slap echoed, sharp and satisfying. Even the pigeons on the window grill fluttered away.

'Jitna bardasht kar sakti thi, kar liya,' I muttered under my breath, my voice low but final.

Kabir’s cheek turned red. He stared at me, bloodshot, choking on rage.

'Ananya, you actually dare to hit me?'

His voice shook. Priya shrieked, fumbling with her phone to record. I’d had enough.

I knocked her phone away, grabbed my suitcase, and shoved them aside.

The phone clattered to the floor. I pushed past, suitcase wheels bumping over cracked tiles.

I vented my anger, smashing whatever I could. I didn’t plan to keep anything anyway.

Glass photo frames, Kabir’s mug, the ugly Ganpati statue Priya gifted—all shattered. Each crash was a release.

'Since you like my stuff so much, you can have it all!'

I shouted, my voice echoing. Let the neighbours gossip.

The place was a mess, a graveyard of memories.

I opened the door and strode out of the apartment I’d lived in for three years.

The corridor was quiet. I walked away, head high. Three years wasted—but never again.