04-09-2025, 04:09 PM
Scene 17 – The Private Dinner
The invitation had arrived in an envelope that looked more like an heirloom than a piece of paper. Heavy cream card stock, embossed with gold, sealed with dark wax. Kabir placed it on Riha’s marble-topped dining table with the same caution one might reserve for a court summons.
Riha, barefoot in silk loungewear the shade of morning mist, picked it up between two delicate fingers. She didn’t open it immediately. Instead, she ran her fingertip over the raised lettering, as if sensing the weight of what it meant.
“Another one?” she asked without looking at Kabir, her voice a calm stream in the quiet room.
Kabir nodded. “This one isn’t ordinary, Riha. Malhotra saab himself. He’s hosting a closed dinner. Not even twenty guests. Ministers, foreign investors, two big directors. You’re on that list.”
Riha’s lips curved in that half-smile she reserved for situations both flattering and suspicious. “Malhotra saab is generous with his invitations. And with his expectations.”
Kabir frowned. “I know. That’s why I wanted to ask you first. We can decline. Politely.”
Riha finally slit the envelope open. The faint scent of expensive ink drifted upward. She read the words with the steady gaze of someone trained to read between the lines: Private dinner at the Malhotra Residence. Attire: Elegant. Guests: Confidential.
She placed the card down and leaned back in her chair, robe slipping slightly at the shoulder, revealing the flawless curve of skin beneath, soft, radiant, unguarded in the cool morning light.
“Declining would make more noise than attending,” she murmured, mind already moving like a chess player. “And sometimes, Kabir, being in the room tells you more than staying outside.”
That evening, the Malhotra estate glowed like a palace in the Mumbai night. Manicured trees lined the private driveway, wrapped in fairy lights that shimmered like captured stars. Valets whisked away Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and a Lamborghini that purred like a jungle cat before falling silent.
Riha stepped out of her understated car, Kabir and two security men flanking her. She wore a midnight silk gown, cut to perfection, elegant, bold, yet modest enough to silence gossip. Diamond earrings caught the light as though the stars themselves had bent down to follow her.
The guards stiffened. Heads turned as she walked in, chin high, stride measured. She didn’t seek attention; it followed her like tide.
Inside, the dinner hummed with polished laughter, clinking glasses, rare wines, saffron-spiced hors d’oeuvres. Business tycoons and political giants conversed in hushed tones. But when Riha entered, the air shifted.
“Ah, Riha ji!” boomed Malhotra saab himself, rising at the head of the mahogany table. Silver-haired, broad-shouldered, suit stitched from power. “You make the night brighter.”
Riha inclined her head. “You are too kind, Malhotra saab. Thank you for having me.” Her voice was warm, melodic, accessible without being available.
The guests leaned subtly closer, admiration, envy, professional curiosity, as eyes lingered on her figure.
Riha glided to her seat, fluid, unhurried. She laughed where appropriate, listened more than spoke, and when she did speak, her words landed with precision.
As courses progressed, saffron soup, lobster tail, lamb cooked for twelve hours, she felt the undercurrents: questions disguised as pleasantries, veiled propositions.
Then Malhotra saab leaned slightly closer, voice dropping beneath the din: “You know, Riha, power is like a hand extended. When you hold it, doors open that no beauty, no fame, can unlock alone.”
Riha’s smile was clear as moonlight. “And when you don’t hold it, saab?”
Malhotra chuckled. Yet his eyes held steel. “Then sometimes… the doors close forever.”
Riha raised her glass. “Fortunately, saab, I’ve always believed doors meant for me will never close.”
Polite laughter rippled across the table. Inside, Riha felt a faint shiver, recognition of the subtle line she walked daily.
Kabir’s eyes met hers. No words were necessary: every smile carried hidden weight. And somewhere, someone was watching too closely.
The invitation had arrived in an envelope that looked more like an heirloom than a piece of paper. Heavy cream card stock, embossed with gold, sealed with dark wax. Kabir placed it on Riha’s marble-topped dining table with the same caution one might reserve for a court summons.
Riha, barefoot in silk loungewear the shade of morning mist, picked it up between two delicate fingers. She didn’t open it immediately. Instead, she ran her fingertip over the raised lettering, as if sensing the weight of what it meant.
“Another one?” she asked without looking at Kabir, her voice a calm stream in the quiet room.
Kabir nodded. “This one isn’t ordinary, Riha. Malhotra saab himself. He’s hosting a closed dinner. Not even twenty guests. Ministers, foreign investors, two big directors. You’re on that list.”
Riha’s lips curved in that half-smile she reserved for situations both flattering and suspicious. “Malhotra saab is generous with his invitations. And with his expectations.”
Kabir frowned. “I know. That’s why I wanted to ask you first. We can decline. Politely.”
Riha finally slit the envelope open. The faint scent of expensive ink drifted upward. She read the words with the steady gaze of someone trained to read between the lines: Private dinner at the Malhotra Residence. Attire: Elegant. Guests: Confidential.
She placed the card down and leaned back in her chair, robe slipping slightly at the shoulder, revealing the flawless curve of skin beneath, soft, radiant, unguarded in the cool morning light.
“Declining would make more noise than attending,” she murmured, mind already moving like a chess player. “And sometimes, Kabir, being in the room tells you more than staying outside.”
- - -
That evening, the Malhotra estate glowed like a palace in the Mumbai night. Manicured trees lined the private driveway, wrapped in fairy lights that shimmered like captured stars. Valets whisked away Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and a Lamborghini that purred like a jungle cat before falling silent.
Riha stepped out of her understated car, Kabir and two security men flanking her. She wore a midnight silk gown, cut to perfection, elegant, bold, yet modest enough to silence gossip. Diamond earrings caught the light as though the stars themselves had bent down to follow her.
The guards stiffened. Heads turned as she walked in, chin high, stride measured. She didn’t seek attention; it followed her like tide.
Inside, the dinner hummed with polished laughter, clinking glasses, rare wines, saffron-spiced hors d’oeuvres. Business tycoons and political giants conversed in hushed tones. But when Riha entered, the air shifted.
“Ah, Riha ji!” boomed Malhotra saab himself, rising at the head of the mahogany table. Silver-haired, broad-shouldered, suit stitched from power. “You make the night brighter.”
Riha inclined her head. “You are too kind, Malhotra saab. Thank you for having me.” Her voice was warm, melodic, accessible without being available.
The guests leaned subtly closer, admiration, envy, professional curiosity, as eyes lingered on her figure.
Riha glided to her seat, fluid, unhurried. She laughed where appropriate, listened more than spoke, and when she did speak, her words landed with precision.
As courses progressed, saffron soup, lobster tail, lamb cooked for twelve hours, she felt the undercurrents: questions disguised as pleasantries, veiled propositions.
Then Malhotra saab leaned slightly closer, voice dropping beneath the din: “You know, Riha, power is like a hand extended. When you hold it, doors open that no beauty, no fame, can unlock alone.”
Riha’s smile was clear as moonlight. “And when you don’t hold it, saab?”
Malhotra chuckled. Yet his eyes held steel. “Then sometimes… the doors close forever.”
Riha raised her glass. “Fortunately, saab, I’ve always believed doors meant for me will never close.”
Polite laughter rippled across the table. Inside, Riha felt a faint shiver, recognition of the subtle line she walked daily.
Kabir’s eyes met hers. No words were necessary: every smile carried hidden weight. And somewhere, someone was watching too closely.
- - -
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