Chapter 1: The Candlelit Betrayal

I spent the entire afternoon glued to the TV, watching every Bollywood love story I could find—hoping to learn the secret to melting Arjun’s ice-cold heart, just once. Each scene made my own hopes burn brighter, even as doubt crept in.

The television blared Arijit Singh’s soulful voice, blending with the heady aroma of garam masala and onions browning in the kitchen. I replayed every Shah Rukh Khan proposal in my mind, convinced that if I recreated some grand filmi gesture, maybe Arjun would finally see me. I set the table with mismatched candles from Dadi’s old trunk, arranging the plates just like those hotel pictures on Instagram reels. Before lighting the wicks, I paused, checked my reflection in the glass—straightened my bindi, smoothed my hair, and whispered a quick prayer to Ganpati Bappa for courage.

The whir of the ceiling fan slowed as the front door opened, and the tangy scent of Priya’s perfume cut through the kitchen’s warmth. Arjun entered with his secretary. They stepped in together, bringing Mumbai’s sticky evening heat. Priya was every inch the city girl—sleek bun, bright lipstick, swinging her bag with that easy confidence. Arjun barely glanced at the candlelight or the careful table setup. The faint clink of his watch as he set his laptop bag on the shoe rack was the only acknowledgment of my efforts.

He looked completely indifferent and simply said he had an online meeting to attend.

He didn’t even pause at the threshold—just tossed his keys into the bowl and strode past me, no smile, not even a quick “Namaste, Meera.” His voice was flat, almost as if he was talking to an employee, not his wife.

I paused, clutching the edge of the table, forcing myself to keep my voice steady as I greeted him softly—only to be ignored. I tightened my apron and turned back to the kitchen, determined not to let the tears fall.

Inside, my heart thudded so hard it hurt. I adjusted my saree pallu with trembling fingers, checked my bindi again, and whispered a silent prayer that the biryani’s fragrance would bring him to me. The hiss of tadka drowned out my worries, but my hope felt as fragile as a diya in the monsoon wind.

An hour later, Priya stepped out of the study, flashing that sugar-sweet smile. She moved with effortless grace, laughter just on the edge of her lips. I wiped my hands on my apron, feeling sweat bead at my hairline. She paused, looked me up and down, and with a knowing smile said, “Goodnight, Meera. You’ve worked so hard—Arjun Sir is lucky.”

I stood there, frozen, the word 'goodbye' stuck in my throat—I just couldn’t say it. My lips parted, but all that escaped was a weak sigh. I fiddled with my mangalsutra, mind blank, as her words echoed between us. The air felt thick with things left unsaid.

Because I noticed—even though she was neatly dressed, the black stockings she had worn when she arrived were missing. Amma’s warning about trusting city girls rang in my ears. My gaze dropped—her skirt was just above her knees, but where those glossy black stockings had hugged her legs, now there was only bare, fair skin. I wiped my palms nervously on my saree, feeling suddenly out of place in my own home. My chest tightened. Even the AC couldn’t cool the flush that rose on my cheeks.

I just stood there, stunned for ages. Everything inside me went still. The distant sound of a local train rattled through the night, but I couldn’t move. My hands went numb, my mind spinning with ugly, jealous thoughts. Was I just being dramatic? Or was the truth this obvious?

I hesitated, thinking of Amma’s scolding—wasting food is a sin, beta—but the pain was too sharp. Still, I whispered a quick sorry before tipping the biryani, paneer tikka, and samosas into the dustbin. My fingers shook as I dumped each dish, the kitchen filling with the scent of wasted effort and dreams dashed against cold marble. I barely noticed the tear that slid down my cheek. The pressure cooker hissed, but I let it be.