[Yours_bear_for]

Bro please give update

[shivanikaur2]

Chapter 43: Rashmi Crosses the Floor

The audit had been moving through the building for three weeks by then, quietly at first, the way these things do — a closed door here, a cancelled meeting there, a senior VP suddenly unreachable for calls he would previously have returned within the hour.

Sutapa had been coming to the flat on Tuesdays and sometimes Sundays. The children absorbed this with the matter-of-fact efficiency of the very young. Nupur asked once whether Sutapa-aunty would be there for dinner. I said probably yes. She nodded and went back to her drawing with the air of someone filing a piece of information she already considered settled.

I did not examine that too closely. There was enough else to examine.

Mohit had the instincts of a man who watched market movements for a living. By the time Rahul's audit had become office corridor knowledge Mohit had already reoriented himself completely. He no longer shared the coffee machine with Rahul. He developed useful memory lapses about certain events at the Holi party.

Rashmi had sharper instincts and more courage.

She called me on a Tuesday and asked to meet for lunch. Elgin Road, quiet restaurant, away from anyone. I agreed.

She arrived and sat down and looked at me with the direct uncomplicated gaze she had always had. Rashmi had never been subtle.

"I want to give a statement for the custody case," she said before the menus arrived.

"Why," I said.

"Because I have a daughter who is three years old," she said. "And when Fatima showed me that nanny cam footage of Poroma slapping Nupur I sat in Fatima's office and thought about my daughter's face for ten minutes before I could say anything." She paused.

"What else," I said.

She told me what Mohit had been told by Rahul. That before the Holi party Rahul had spoken to Mohit and told him he had a plan for Poroma. That it was not a spontaneous game. That Rahul had specifically selected the Holi party as the execution night.

"Mohit will not testify," she said. "He is afraid. But I will."

We ate lunch and she gave me everything in clean precise detail, the kind of testimony that a family court advocate would be very glad to receive.

I asked her why she was willing to put herself in this position.

"Because Mohit was part of it," she said simply. "He knew and he did nothing and that is something I have to live with and the least I can do is make it count for something now."

That afternoon she came to the flat. The Aya had taken the children to the park. The flat was quiet. She came in, looked at me once, and stopped in the middle of the sitting room and turned to face me.

"I want to say something before we talk about the paperwork," she said.

"Alright," I said.

"I have wanted you since before all of this happened," she said. "Since before the Holi party. For about a year actually." She held my gaze without any embarrassment whatsoever. "I want you to know that so you don't think any of this is sympathy or obligation."

I looked at her. Her directness was extraordinary. She had always had it. In social situations it had seemed like abrasiveness. Here it was simply honesty and it was refreshing beyond description.

"I have also tested," she said. "I was never with Rahul. Not once. I am completely clean." A pause. "Just so we have covered that."

She crossed the room to me and kissed me with complete confidence and put her arms around my neck. Her hands moved immediately, purposeful, working at my shirt buttons from the collar down.

She walked me to the bedroom with both hands and the ease of a woman who has decided on something and has no interest in indirection. She undressed quickly and without ceremony, tossed her things onto the chair, and stood in the afternoon light coming through the curtains with the unselfconsciousness of someone who has made peace with her body and expects it to be received well.

She was fiercely beautiful. Strong-shouldered, full-breasted, compact and powerful. She looked at me finishing undressing with frank appreciation and then stepped forward and pulled me in by the waist.

She pushed me back hard onto the bed and climbed up over me.

"You have been running on nothing for a year," she said. "I am going to fix that."

She was not wrong.

She took me in her hand and worked with her grip for a moment, watching my face with the clinical attention she brought to everything, checking results. Then she pulled me up to sitting, straddled my lap before I had fully registered the movement, reached down to position me, and dropped her weight down in one decisive stroke that drew a sound from both of us.

She braced both hands on my shoulders — not my chest, she wanted the height — and started moving immediately, no adjustment period, driving. Her thighs did all the work and she had strong thighs and she knew how to use them. She was simultaneously demanding and precise, adjusting the angle when she wanted depth and going short and hard when she wanted friction, and she reached down once and placed my hand exactly where she wanted it with the same brisk authority she applied to everything else and then put her hand back on my shoulder and kept going.

She came loudly and completely, her whole body clenching, her head back, no effort to manage the sound of it. I followed a few moments later with my hands locked onto her thighs.

She collapsed onto her back beside me and lay staring at the ceiling with a satisfied expression like a cat in a sunbeam.

"Better," she said.

I laughed. An actual laugh. I had not done that in a long time either.

She turned her head to look at me. She was grinning.

"There it is," she said. "That is the face you should have had this whole time."

She stayed and gave me the written statement in detailed clinical prose that Fatima would later describe as among the most useful witness statements she had received in a custody case. Then she kissed me once more at the door and left.

I stood in the quiet flat and felt, underneath everything, the specific warmth of being wanted and cared for by people who were choosing to be in my corner.

The bedroom door was still open. The afternoon light had shifted in the room, coming from a different angle now. A glass of water she had left on the bedside table.

I went in and opened the window. I straightened the coverlet. Both unnecessary. Both done anyway.

Then I sat at my desk and drafted the email to Fatima.

[Parthibajeeva]

Did I miss something or you missed?? In flat means there is no Paroma!! Two women but in the house where he and his family living .. No sign of Paroma.. what happened???

[Yours_bear_for]

Did I miss something or you missed?? In flat means there is no Paroma!!  Two women but in the house where he and his family living .. No sign of Paroma.. what happened???

Yes After he sends paper of divorce there are no sign of pronoma . Where is she? Is she with Rahul or moved somewhere else or something else is cooking, which can Change the whole story and Paroma and rahul come out as winner

[Rangushki]

Poroma is busy in her prostitute profession. Hardly finding any time as her pussy is busy round the clock

[Pushpa Purusan]

Sorry to say this. This is a boring update. Once a wimp is always a wimp. Once a bitch is always a bitch.

[Vineeth412]

Thank you for the updates. Really interested in seeing how the story would fold out.

[Gajakidost]

Poroma got defeated only once. Ranjeet got defeated many more times

[Yours_bear_for]

Hey please talk about proma in your next update we also wants to see where she is and how she is dealing with everything or rahul is cooking something else behind ranjeet back and every other girl is playing with ranjeet on the instructions of rahul

[Yours_bear_for]

Hey when can we accept new update

[Yours_bear_for]

Bro please give new update, everyone is waiting for a closer

[Nesamanikumar]

Continue to discontinue

[Yours_bear_for]

Bro last few updates are left give give them everyone wants to see a deserving ending

[Rishabh1]

Rajnjeet suddenly scoring all these women with sympathy feels unnatural...I get it, they are offering themselves willfully but that doesn't discount the fact that he's weak/stupid, if anything it's just a fanboy justification of 'ranjeet can fuck too!', so would be more interested to see in how he proceeds to protect himself and kids from poroma and rahul and bring a natural conclusion to the downfall of poroma which is inevitable as with these things in in life!.

[Yours_bear_for]

I don’t know why but after your comment i felt like something is missing. The way every women is presenting herself to Ranjeet is not quite right, and his wife is also not present. The biggest question is Where is She?
If she is not here then where she is
Is Rahul and his wife sent this women’s to trap Ranjeet or are they genuinely helping him

[Runer]

Next update

[Yours_bear_for]

Please Give New Update...Everyone is waiting

[Yours_bear_for]

Dear Author...I know you will give use update whenever you get chance and you have your own life too time but please provide us an update. Everyone wants to see a happy ending for Ranjeet and everyone wants to see Poroma POV. Please it's a humble request, give update or atleast tell everyone when will be the update

[shivanikaur2]

Hi Everyone, sorry for the delay. There will be an update soon

[shivanikaur2]

Chapter 44: How the Audit Began

People in the office would later say the audit came out of nowhere. That Rahul had simply been unlucky, that some routine compliance sweep from the Mumbai head office had happened to land on his desk the same month his personal life was coming apart.

It did not come out of nowhere. It came out of a Tuesday night in October, my laptop, and a question I should have asked a year earlier.

It was Fatima who made me ask it, though she did not know that at the time.

We had been going through the chronology for the custody petition in her chamber, page after page of dates, and she had stopped at a line I had written almost as an afterthought. January last year: client complaints begin. Contracts found to contain errors I did not make.

"Explain this," she said.

I told her. The clients who had called the reception when I was out. The contracts that had reached them with clauses missing, clauses I had personally negotiated over months. The boss calling me in. Rahul being appointed to approve my work before it went out. The promotion that slid out of my reach and into his.

Fatima listened without interrupting. When I finished she tapped the page with her pen.

"These contracts went out from your email ID," she said.

"Yes."

"With your signature block."

"Yes."

"And you did not write those versions."

"No."

She looked at me over her glasses for a long moment. "Ranjeet, either you are lying to me, or someone logged into your account and changed documents before they went out. The first is a professional problem for you. The second is a crime."

I had thought about it a hundred times at the time. Somehow I had never once thought about it like that.

"I assumed I had made mistakes," I said. "Everyone told me I had. My boss. Poroma. Even I started believing it."

"Your wife told you that you had made mistakes," Fatima repeated slowly, and wrote something in her notebook that she did not show me.

Our company runs its email on a corporate server. Every login is recorded: the time, the device, the network address. Nobody ever looks at those logs unless something goes very wrong. I did not have access to them. Rashmi did.

Not officially. But as my secretary she had been given administrative rights to my mailbox and calendar, to manage my schedule while I was on tour, and those rights came with a little screen called Account Activity that nobody in the office had ever bothered to open.

I asked her to open it on a Tuesday night in October, in the back of an Uber parked on Elgin Road, because she still did not trust the office.

She scrolled for a long time without speaking. The streetlights moved across her face.

"Ranjeet," she said finally. "Look at this."

The activity history only went back fourteen months. That was enough. On eleven separate dates in the January to March before the Holi party, my account had been accessed while I was physically somewhere else. Twice while I was on a flight to Delhi. Once while I was sitting in a client meeting in Salt Lake with three witnesses. Each time from the same device, a laptop registered on the company network under an asset number.

Rashmi typed the asset number into the IT inventory portal.

Asset KOL-LT-2291. Assigned to: Rahul Mehra, Sales.

Neither of us said anything for a while. The driver was playing Kishore Kumar softly on the radio.

"He sat at the reception flirting with the girls," I said at last. "That's what I was told. That he just happened to be there when my clients called."

"He was there because he knew they would call," Rashmi said quietly. "He had changed the contracts himself. He was waiting for the complaints he had created."

Eleven logins. A year of my life. A promotion I had worked three years for. And every evening of it I had come home to Poroma and she had told me that Rahul was only trying to help me.

Rashmi took screenshots of everything on her own phone, with the timestamps visible, and emailed nothing. Fatima had been very specific about that.

She also gave me something else that night, in a plain brown envelope. The letter that had come with the gift box of dresses and the ten thousand rupees in cash. The typed instructions: what she would be paid for a handjob in my office, a blowjob, full sex, as long as it happened inside the office and with no other employee present.

"I kept it," she said. "I don't know why. Maybe I knew."

"Who sent it?"

"The courier slip was from a shop in Gariahat. I went there. They remembered the customer because he paid cash and he was very tall and very good-looking and he asked the girl at the counter for her number." She gave a tired little smile. "Some men can't help themselves even when they're committing a crime."

The obvious person to take this to was Patel Sir. He was the senior Vice President for the eastern region, and he was the man who had brought Rahul from Delhi on his personal reference.

That was exactly why I did not go to him.

I had spent four months doing nothing but my job, my training, and my thinking, and somewhere in those months I had started noticing things. That Rahul's targets were always met, and the clients that met them always had something in common. That Patel Sir signed off on Rahul's expense claims personally, which he did for no one else. That nobody in Kolkata knew why Rahul had left Delhi in the middle of a financial year.

So I did something I had never done in ten years at the company. I wrote to the Ethics and Compliance helpline at head office in Mumbai. The one whose number is printed on the back of our ID cards, under a line nobody reads: Report concerns confidentially. Retaliation is prohibited.

I attached the login history. The asset number. The original contracts I had drafted, from my own sent folder, side by side with the altered versions the clients had received. And the honey-trap letter, with a two-line note: I believe this was intended to create a false misconduct case against me. I believe it was sent by the same person.

Then I did the second thing. I called Mr. Gupta.

Mr. Gupta of Gupta Productions had been my client for six years before Rahul took him. I had worked a whole year on the project he finally signed with Rahul. I had always liked him. He was a decent man from Burrabazar who had built a business from one sewing machine.

He agreed to meet me at the Calcutta Club on a Saturday afternoon. He was older than I remembered, and tired.

I did not tell him about Priyanka. I did not need to. I showed him the two versions of his own contract. The one I had drafted for him a year earlier with the price protection clause he had specifically asked for, and the one Rahul had sent him, without it.

He read both twice. Then he took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.

"Without this clause," he said, "my raw material costs this year have gone up by forty lakhs that I should not have paid."

"Yes, sir."

"And your company made forty lakhs more."

"And Rahul's quarterly bonus was calculated on it."

Mr. Gupta was quiet for a long time. On the lawn outside, a few old men in white were playing croquet very slowly.

"My wife insisted we sign with him," he said finally, very softly. "After New York. She was very insistent." He looked at me. "You know, don't you."

"I know nothing about your wife, sir. I only know about the contract."

He nodded slowly. He understood the kindness, and he did not thank me for it. That was the right response too.

"I will write to your Managing Director on Monday," he said. "As your company's largest client in the east. I will ask for a full review of my account." He stood up and shook my hand. "You should have been the one to sign with me, Ranjeet. I wanted it to be you."

That was how the audit began. Head office took a complaint from a junior sales executive seriously because, three days later, a letter arrived from a client worth eleven crores a year asking exactly the same questions.

That was why, on the morning my papers were served on Poroma, Rahul was sitting in a closed conference room with the internal audit committee. And that was why the two people he had never expected to see in the same room were sitting across the table from him. One was Mr. Gupta. The other was the head of Compliance from Mumbai, who had flown in specifically, and who had already pulled Patel Sir's approval history for every expense claim Rahul had submitted in fourteen months.

I was not in that room. I was at my desk two floors below, doing my job, exactly as Fatima had instructed.

But I knew what was happening up there, and for the first time since the night of the Holi party, I did not feel like the man things were being done to.

There is one more thing I should explain, because people have asked.

When the papers were served, I did not go home that evening.

Fatima had filed two things together. The divorce petition, and an urgent application for interim custody of Nupur and Rajiv, supported by the nanny-cam footage of the slap, the Aya's diary, the missed vaccination record from the clinic, and the written statements from Nupur's teacher and from Rashmi.

The family court judge, a grey-haired woman called Mrs. Chakraborty who Fatima said had raised four children of her own, watched the slap footage twice in her chamber. She did not watch it a third time. She granted interim custody to me the same afternoon, pending a full hearing, with supervised visitation for Poroma twice a week at a neutral place.

I had already signed a lease, three weeks earlier, on a two-bedroom flat in Ballygunge that I had found through a colleague's cousin. I had paid the deposit from my bonus and told nobody. That evening the Aya packed the children's things while Poroma sat at the kitchen table and watched her do it, and the uncle from downstairs drove them over in his old Maruti. Nupur chose the yellow curtains herself, from a shop on Gariahat, the following weekend.

Poroma stayed in the house. Alone.

I did not see her for nine days. I did not answer her calls. Every message I sent her went through Fatima.

I have been asked if it was cruel. Maybe it was. But I had watched her walk away from our crying daughter to straighten her blouse, and I did not trust myself to see her yet.

And somewhere in that house in those nine days, with the children's rooms empty and Rahul no longer answering his phone, Poroma began, for the first time, to understand what she had done.

She told me about those nine days much later. I will let her tell it.