Chapter 3: The First Encounter

My body tensed, but the scent of his expensive aftershave—reserved for special occasions, mixed with cigarette smoke—told me it was Arjun. The tension in my shoulders melted, replaced by a flutter of nerves.

He nuzzled into my neck, warm breath sending shivers down my spine, his stubble rough against my skin. For a moment, the world shrank to just us, the monsoon outside and neighbours’ TV sounds fading away.

Strange—why was he home so early tonight? His friends usually kept him out late, drinking and reminiscing about St. Xavier’s. Before I could ask, he pulled me closer.

He sensed my distraction and suddenly bit me—sharp, intimate. I yelped, hand flying to the spot. I glared at him, wanting to say, ‘Are you a dog or what?’ but bit my tongue. The sting lingered as I rubbed the spot, hiding my annoyance.

But I didn’t dare get angry. I only whispered, “That hurts.”

He paused, that half-smile reserved for me flickering on his lips. My heart skipped a beat as I pouted.

“Bear it, even if it hurts.”

His words were a challenge, pain and love always tangled up in his world.

He picked me up and tossed me onto the bed. His strength startled me, and I grabbed the pillow, bracing myself.

In these three years, he was never gentle in bed. Tonight was no different. I wondered if all rich men loved like this—affection edged with cruelty, tenderness hidden behind commands.

My robe was stripped off, and in the midst of his rough embrace, he asked, “Where’s my birthday present?”

I pointed to the bedside table. He opened it, saw the belt, and let out a low laugh.

He raised an eyebrow. “What, you want to become Lady Singham now?”

I flushed, shaking my head. How could I dare? I was just a lover who couldn’t be seen in daylight.

“Good that you know.” His tone was final, reminding me of my place.

He picked up the belt and deftly tied my hands together. The rough leather bit into my skin, humiliation and thrill mingling as the clock’s hands crawled past midnight.

“Arjun, don’t—” I tried to wriggle free, voice trembling. He was faster, stronger, and never listened to pleas. Before I could finish, his kiss silenced me.

He was always like this—decisive and intimidating in business, domineering and relentless in bed, making me cry more often than not.

That night, my throat was hoarse from shouting. When he finally got up, his back was marked by red scratches from my nails.

After showering, he pulled me close and quickly fell asleep. I lay awake, listening to the ceiling fan creak, his heartbeat steady while my thoughts spiraled—towards the baby, towards a future I dared not imagine.

My first encounter with Arjun was three years ago. Back then, I was a Fergusson College student, juggling part-time jobs and tuition classes for Amma’s sake. The Malhotra name was a rumour in the hostel corridors.

He’d donated new buildings to the college. On ribbon-cutting day, I was a hostess. Distracted, I spilled juice on him. My saree pallu slipped as I bent to clean, hands shaking. The principal glared, ordering me to apologise. I clutched my dupatta, adjusting it nervously, the heat of the afternoon prickling my skin, the faint smell of samosas wafting from the canteen.

After the event, a senior whispered, “That’s the Malhotra! His one call and even the principal will be out.” My knees turned to jelly.

At the gate, I chased his car. He sat inside, Ray-Bans hiding his eyes. I stammered, “Mr. Malhotra, I’m really sorry for your suit. Can you tell me the brand? I’ll try to buy you a new one.”

His assistant laughed. “Madam, you know how much these cost? That’s a Savile Row special, imported.” The driver chuckled, making it worse. The quoted price spun in my head, making me dizzy.

Arjun took off his jacket and said indifferently, “If it’s dirty, throw it away.” He tossed it to the driver, his voice cold.

The car window rolled up, closing the gap between our worlds.

I thought that was the end. But months later, Amma’s illness returned. We’d borrowed from everyone, pawned jewellery, and still the bills piled up. Desperation drove me to Malhotra Group’s steel-and-glass tower. The security eyed me, my hands clammy on the medical reports.

For some reason, he agreed to see me. His assistant led me in—Arjun behind a huge desk, legs crossed. After hearing my plea, he took a drag on his cigarette and asked, “You want my help. So tell me, Miss Meera, what are you willing to offer?”

I fought to keep my dignity. “I can write you an IOU. Set the interest yourself. I’ll pay you back after I graduate.”

He laughed, gaze burning. “Money, I have plenty. As for what I want—Miss Meera is a smart woman. Why not guess for yourself?”

Then he had me thrown out. His assistant guided me out, but as I reached the lobby, he pressed a slip into my palm, his hands smelling faintly of paan: “Eight o’clock tonight. Be on time. Mr. Malhotra won’t wait.”

At twenty-two, I had nothing but a clean body. That night, I wore a white lace nightdress and climbed into his bed. The nightdress was torn, along with my self-respect. Those days lasted three years.

We agreed: I’d stay for five years, always on call, never allowed to refuse. When time was up, he’d let me go. But Amma died before the contract ended. At least she never knew how her proud daughter survived.