04-09-2025, 06:17 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2025, 06:18 PM by shailu4ever. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Scene 18 – The Private Gathering
The evening after the Malhotra dinner, Riha found herself summoned to another private gathering. The mansion was set far from the city’s noise, perched on a hilltop where the glittering lights of Mumbai looked like a fallen galaxy. The drive up passed through iron gates that opened only for the chosen few. Her car rolled forward past security that didn’t even ask for IDs — tonight, everyone belonged to the inner circle.
Riha stepped out, Kabir by her side, her bouncers hanging discreetly in the shadows. She wore a deep emerald gown that flowed like water, catching the chandeliers’ glow. The silk hugged her frame just enough to remind the room that she was beauty personified, while the high neckline and elegant dbang made clear she had no need to bare herself to command attention. Her presence itself silenced conversations.
The host, Minister Deshmukh, a veteran in politics with a smile too rehearsed, greeted her with folded hands.
“Riha ji, Mumbai is brighter tonight.” His tone carried respect, yet something proprietary, as though her presence were a personal favor.
“Namaste, Deshmukh saab,” she replied, polite but firm, lowering her eyes briefly before reclaiming her poise.
Inside, the gathering was small — a dozen men in starched suits, a handful of women dbangd in couture, and a couple of foreign businessmen whose names rarely appeared in newspapers. Conversations hummed around stock markets, upcoming elections, and the film industry’s influence in shaping public mood.
Every so often, someone’s eyes flickered to her. She knew the look — admiration, desire, calculation. She smiled gracefully at compliments, deflecting with precision:
“Riha, if beauty could be patented, you’d bankrupt us all,” an industrialist remarked.
“Good thing it can’t be patented, saab, or the world would be very poor indeed.” Laughter rose, but a few faces tightened. She had deflected without surrendering.
Later, in a quieter corner, Arav Malhotra appeared. Leaning close enough for only her to hear, he murmured,
“You know, Riha… in this city, beauty isn’t enough. Sometimes, to stay where you are, you must belong to someone.”
Her smile didn’t falter. Sipping her wine, she said softly,
“Sir, I already belong… to my work, and to the audience who made me. That’s enough for me.”
Polite. Respectful. Absolute.
Minister Deshmukh rejoined them with another guest, introducing Riha to Mr. Kapoor, a global tycoon. His handshake lingered a second too long, his compliment veiled with intent.
“Your films travel farther than you do. Maybe someday, you should let me take you places your beauty deserves.”
A faint prickling ran along her skin. The air felt heavier. She offered a light laugh, masking the alarm:
“Cinema already travels everywhere, Kapoor saab. I just follow its light.”
The evening after the Malhotra dinner, Riha found herself summoned to another private gathering. The mansion was set far from the city’s noise, perched on a hilltop where the glittering lights of Mumbai looked like a fallen galaxy. The drive up passed through iron gates that opened only for the chosen few. Her car rolled forward past security that didn’t even ask for IDs — tonight, everyone belonged to the inner circle.
Riha stepped out, Kabir by her side, her bouncers hanging discreetly in the shadows. She wore a deep emerald gown that flowed like water, catching the chandeliers’ glow. The silk hugged her frame just enough to remind the room that she was beauty personified, while the high neckline and elegant dbang made clear she had no need to bare herself to command attention. Her presence itself silenced conversations.
The host, Minister Deshmukh, a veteran in politics with a smile too rehearsed, greeted her with folded hands.
“Riha ji, Mumbai is brighter tonight.” His tone carried respect, yet something proprietary, as though her presence were a personal favor.
“Namaste, Deshmukh saab,” she replied, polite but firm, lowering her eyes briefly before reclaiming her poise.
Inside, the gathering was small — a dozen men in starched suits, a handful of women dbangd in couture, and a couple of foreign businessmen whose names rarely appeared in newspapers. Conversations hummed around stock markets, upcoming elections, and the film industry’s influence in shaping public mood.
Every so often, someone’s eyes flickered to her. She knew the look — admiration, desire, calculation. She smiled gracefully at compliments, deflecting with precision:
“Riha, if beauty could be patented, you’d bankrupt us all,” an industrialist remarked.
“Good thing it can’t be patented, saab, or the world would be very poor indeed.” Laughter rose, but a few faces tightened. She had deflected without surrendering.
Later, in a quieter corner, Arav Malhotra appeared. Leaning close enough for only her to hear, he murmured,
“You know, Riha… in this city, beauty isn’t enough. Sometimes, to stay where you are, you must belong to someone.”
Her smile didn’t falter. Sipping her wine, she said softly,
“Sir, I already belong… to my work, and to the audience who made me. That’s enough for me.”
Polite. Respectful. Absolute.
Minister Deshmukh rejoined them with another guest, introducing Riha to Mr. Kapoor, a global tycoon. His handshake lingered a second too long, his compliment veiled with intent.
“Your films travel farther than you do. Maybe someday, you should let me take you places your beauty deserves.”
A faint prickling ran along her skin. The air felt heavier. She offered a light laugh, masking the alarm:
“Cinema already travels everywhere, Kapoor saab. I just follow its light.”
.
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