16-10-2023, 02:58 PM
Meghna wasn't comfortable with the situation, but what choice did she have? With her husband stumbling around and a distance to cover back home, it felt like the only workable solution.
Khan and his friend Bilal helped Prasad into the formidable black Jaguar while Meghna got into the front seat. Once the car had left the opulence of the gala venue, Khan turned towards Meghna, "Where's your address?" His commanding voice had a hint of curiosity, mixing business with a necessary act of kindness.
"150, Martin Luther King Boulevard," she uttered nervously, anticipating his reaction.
Khan let out a surprised laugh. "What? That's the east side of the city! Do you realise how dangerous that area can be during the night? Especially when a Jaguar enters - it spells trouble. I don't want to risk getting carjacked or mugged. Let's rest at my penthouse instead."
Meghna knew the statistics all too well. She was often greeted by the echoes of gunshots, just as much part of her life as morning coffees. But staying at Khan's penthouse? She hesitated, weighing her options, before finally nodding. After all, the man was offering shelter on a perilous night. But she knew it might be a trap.
Meghna’s heart pounded against her chest like the thudding beat of an unsympathetic drum. Beneath the silver gleams of the high-tech garage's ceiling lights, Khan parked the sleek Jaguar in its rightful place.. As the engine's murmuring hum faded into silence, he turned to look at her, a sinister gleam in his eyes. "Meghna," he said in a low, persuasive tone, "leave your husband, Prasad. He’s passed out drunk. No need for him to be dragged along."
Fear clawed up her throat, a real, tangible thing, but she hastily swallowed it down. She had no choice but to go along with Khan; it was, after all, his penthouse and his party. Nonetheless, Meghna felt a shiver of unease as they ascended the elevator to the impeccably decorated bachelor pad. Its sparse aesthetics, however modern, failed to mimic the comfort of a home.
The penthouse boasted a massive home theatre, where a wall-to-wall screen monopolized one side of the room. Adjacent to it, an entire wall fitted with a display of a liquor cabinet shone under the subdued lights - room's grim ornaments that made her feel more uncomfortable. She found a spot on the plush black couch positioned away from Khan's viewing range.
Khan, effortless and charming in his deadly allure, leaned against the opulent liquor cabinet. "We have time to spare," he declared smoothly. "Care for a drink, Meghna?"
"No, thank you," Meghna replied, doing her utmost to hide her tremors beneath a calm exterior. Her mind was a battlefield of thoughts, the war between worry for her unconscious husband and her own safety prevailing.
"Dont worry," Khan said, a predatory smile gracing his lips as he slid out a glass from the cabinet. "Your husband won't know. How about a margarita?"
“No,” Meghna repeated, refraining from meeting his gaze. She remembered downing just a single glass of champagne during the party, her senses still perfectly clear and unimpaired. Khan had sent waiters to spy on her, she noted, clearly aiming to keep her at an optimum amount of inebriation - enough to be compliant, but not enough to be completely overcome by alcohol.
. "Try this, this is tequila," he said with charisma, handing a shot glass to the woman beside him.. Meghna held her tiny glass tentatively, the smell of strong alcohol piercing her nose as she cringed.
"Ewww, it's so strong!" she said, but Khan only laughed off her reaction. "You just need to down it in one go," he advised, lifting his glass.
There was a touch of anticipation and impatience mingling with the good-humoured disguise on his face. They clinked their glasses together and, without waiting for a second, Khan downed his tequila. Taking a deep breath, Meghna followed suit, the fire in her throat and the unfamiliar steam in her stomach left her gasping.
But, before she could recover, Khan had already handed her a margarita, a sweeter, more palatable drink. Meghna welcomed it with relief, the sugary taste removing the lingering bitterness of the tequila.
"So tell me, Meghna, where are you from in India?" Khan’s question seemed innocuous, but his eyes snapped in predatory expectation. Oblivious, Meghna began unfolding her story. She told him of her childhood in the colourful small village in India, of the freedom and innocence and her subsequent marriage.
As Khan nodded and smiled, there was a cold disinterest that belied his warm facade. He wasn't really interested in her story. His only interest was in the drowsiness that started to creep into Meghna’s eyes, a clear signal that the alcohol was starting to take effect. Patiently, Khan held his glass to his lips, waiting. He had set the stage and now, he was ready to make his move.
"How about a dance, Meghna? I'm sure you can tap your legs."
Meghna hesitated, shaking her head, "No, I can't, Sir."
Khan and his friend Bilal helped Prasad into the formidable black Jaguar while Meghna got into the front seat. Once the car had left the opulence of the gala venue, Khan turned towards Meghna, "Where's your address?" His commanding voice had a hint of curiosity, mixing business with a necessary act of kindness.
"150, Martin Luther King Boulevard," she uttered nervously, anticipating his reaction.
Khan let out a surprised laugh. "What? That's the east side of the city! Do you realise how dangerous that area can be during the night? Especially when a Jaguar enters - it spells trouble. I don't want to risk getting carjacked or mugged. Let's rest at my penthouse instead."
Meghna knew the statistics all too well. She was often greeted by the echoes of gunshots, just as much part of her life as morning coffees. But staying at Khan's penthouse? She hesitated, weighing her options, before finally nodding. After all, the man was offering shelter on a perilous night. But she knew it might be a trap.
Meghna’s heart pounded against her chest like the thudding beat of an unsympathetic drum. Beneath the silver gleams of the high-tech garage's ceiling lights, Khan parked the sleek Jaguar in its rightful place.. As the engine's murmuring hum faded into silence, he turned to look at her, a sinister gleam in his eyes. "Meghna," he said in a low, persuasive tone, "leave your husband, Prasad. He’s passed out drunk. No need for him to be dragged along."
Fear clawed up her throat, a real, tangible thing, but she hastily swallowed it down. She had no choice but to go along with Khan; it was, after all, his penthouse and his party. Nonetheless, Meghna felt a shiver of unease as they ascended the elevator to the impeccably decorated bachelor pad. Its sparse aesthetics, however modern, failed to mimic the comfort of a home.
The penthouse boasted a massive home theatre, where a wall-to-wall screen monopolized one side of the room. Adjacent to it, an entire wall fitted with a display of a liquor cabinet shone under the subdued lights - room's grim ornaments that made her feel more uncomfortable. She found a spot on the plush black couch positioned away from Khan's viewing range.
Khan, effortless and charming in his deadly allure, leaned against the opulent liquor cabinet. "We have time to spare," he declared smoothly. "Care for a drink, Meghna?"
"No, thank you," Meghna replied, doing her utmost to hide her tremors beneath a calm exterior. Her mind was a battlefield of thoughts, the war between worry for her unconscious husband and her own safety prevailing.
"Dont worry," Khan said, a predatory smile gracing his lips as he slid out a glass from the cabinet. "Your husband won't know. How about a margarita?"
“No,” Meghna repeated, refraining from meeting his gaze. She remembered downing just a single glass of champagne during the party, her senses still perfectly clear and unimpaired. Khan had sent waiters to spy on her, she noted, clearly aiming to keep her at an optimum amount of inebriation - enough to be compliant, but not enough to be completely overcome by alcohol.
. "Try this, this is tequila," he said with charisma, handing a shot glass to the woman beside him.. Meghna held her tiny glass tentatively, the smell of strong alcohol piercing her nose as she cringed.
"Ewww, it's so strong!" she said, but Khan only laughed off her reaction. "You just need to down it in one go," he advised, lifting his glass.
There was a touch of anticipation and impatience mingling with the good-humoured disguise on his face. They clinked their glasses together and, without waiting for a second, Khan downed his tequila. Taking a deep breath, Meghna followed suit, the fire in her throat and the unfamiliar steam in her stomach left her gasping.
But, before she could recover, Khan had already handed her a margarita, a sweeter, more palatable drink. Meghna welcomed it with relief, the sugary taste removing the lingering bitterness of the tequila.
"So tell me, Meghna, where are you from in India?" Khan’s question seemed innocuous, but his eyes snapped in predatory expectation. Oblivious, Meghna began unfolding her story. She told him of her childhood in the colourful small village in India, of the freedom and innocence and her subsequent marriage.
As Khan nodded and smiled, there was a cold disinterest that belied his warm facade. He wasn't really interested in her story. His only interest was in the drowsiness that started to creep into Meghna’s eyes, a clear signal that the alcohol was starting to take effect. Patiently, Khan held his glass to his lips, waiting. He had set the stage and now, he was ready to make his move.
"How about a dance, Meghna? I'm sure you can tap your legs."
Meghna hesitated, shaking her head, "No, I can't, Sir."
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