22-12-2025, 09:07 PM
Chapter 18 – The Missed Chance | Nivi and Rohan underestimated Prem
The following week arrived faster than Prem expected.
His small office — now with a handful of new staff, rented desks, the hum of ambition — felt alive.
Rohan called the evening before.
“Tomorrow, 11 AM. I’m bringing the first real client. Be ready.”
Prem grinned into the phone. “We’re ready. Thank you, Rohan. This is big.”
Rohan’s voice was neutral. “Good. See you then.”
The next morning, Rohan’s Mercedes pulled up outside the modest IT park building.
He stepped out in a crisp linen shirt, sleeves rolled, no tie — understated power.
Beside him walked Mr. Ruban— owner of a mid-sized logistics firm with deep pockets and constant outsourcing needs. Rohan had chosen him deliberately: small enough to test Prem’s team, big enough to matter.
Rohan scanned the entrance as they walked in.
Prem greeted them warmly, handshakes, smiles, quick tour of the office.
Staff bustling. Whiteboards filled with flowcharts.
But no Nivi.
Rohan’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
“Where’s your wife?” he asked casually as Prem led them to the conference room.
Prem laughed, waving it off. “Nivi? She’s just a homemaker. Why bring her in? This is men’s work, right? Operations, tech, deals — she handles home and Aara. Perfect balance.”
Rohan stopped walking.
The air shifted.
Mr. Ruban glanced between them, sensing tension.
Rohan’s voice was quiet, but it cut like glass.
“I see.”
He turned to Ruban. “I’m sorry. Something urgent came up. We’ll reschedule.”
Ruban, experienced enough to read the room, nodded immediately. “Of course. Call me when convenient.”
Handshakes. Apologies.
Within minutes, Rohan was back in his car.
Engine roared as he pulled away.
Disappointment burned cold in his chest.
Not anger at Nivi.
At Prem.
The cage was tighter than he thought.
The man didn’t just protect — he buried.
Back home that evening, Prem burst through the door, excited.
“Big news! Rohan brought a client today — logistics guy, serious money. Meeting got postponed, but it’s happening tomorrow. This could be huge.”
Nivi looked up from the kitchen, stirring sambar.
She hadn’t known Rohan was coming.
Hadn’t been told anything.
Her path — the one that had briefly opened at the lunch table, the one where someone saw her mind, her worth — blurred again.
Closed by Prem. Without a word.
For the first time in years, something dark stirred in her.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t congratulate.
Quietly, in her heart, she prayed:
Let his meeting fail tomorrow.
Let this meeting go wrong.
Just once.
Let him feel what it’s like when dreams are taken away.
That night, in his penthouse, Rohan sat with a whiskey, staring at his phone.
Prem’s words echoed.
“Just a homemaker.”
He had been so close.
One meeting. One chance to pull her in properly.
Now blocked by the same man who claimed to love her.
His hands trembled slightly as he opened a new message to Nivi.
Typed:
Need to discuss tomorrow’s pitch urgently. Can we talk?
Then deleted it.
Too forward.
Too risky.
He set the phone down.
Across the city, in their bedroom, Prem already asleep, Nivi lay awake.
The lunch. The rain. The overcoat.
The way Rohan had looked at her when she spoke.
No one — not even Prem in their best days — had looked at her like that.
Like she was capable.
Powerful.
Seen.
Her fingers hovered over her phone.
She opened messages.
Found Rohan’s name.
Typed:
Thank you again for the other day. The clients… everything.
Then paused.
Deleted.
Typed again:
Prem said the meeting was postponed. Is everything okay?
Her thumb hovered over send.
Then stopped.
She set the phone face-down.
Both of them — miles apart — stared at dark ceilings.
Wanting to reach. Afraid to.
The same thought in both minds:
Just once.
Just one message.
But neither sent it.
They slept. Uneasy. Hungry.
The chase paused.
But only for a night.
The following week arrived faster than Prem expected.
His small office — now with a handful of new staff, rented desks, the hum of ambition — felt alive.
Rohan called the evening before.
“Tomorrow, 11 AM. I’m bringing the first real client. Be ready.”
Prem grinned into the phone. “We’re ready. Thank you, Rohan. This is big.”
Rohan’s voice was neutral. “Good. See you then.”
The next morning, Rohan’s Mercedes pulled up outside the modest IT park building.
He stepped out in a crisp linen shirt, sleeves rolled, no tie — understated power.
Beside him walked Mr. Ruban— owner of a mid-sized logistics firm with deep pockets and constant outsourcing needs. Rohan had chosen him deliberately: small enough to test Prem’s team, big enough to matter.
Rohan scanned the entrance as they walked in.
Prem greeted them warmly, handshakes, smiles, quick tour of the office.
Staff bustling. Whiteboards filled with flowcharts.
But no Nivi.
Rohan’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
“Where’s your wife?” he asked casually as Prem led them to the conference room.
Prem laughed, waving it off. “Nivi? She’s just a homemaker. Why bring her in? This is men’s work, right? Operations, tech, deals — she handles home and Aara. Perfect balance.”
Rohan stopped walking.
The air shifted.
Mr. Ruban glanced between them, sensing tension.
Rohan’s voice was quiet, but it cut like glass.
“I see.”
He turned to Ruban. “I’m sorry. Something urgent came up. We’ll reschedule.”
Ruban, experienced enough to read the room, nodded immediately. “Of course. Call me when convenient.”
Handshakes. Apologies.
Within minutes, Rohan was back in his car.
Engine roared as he pulled away.
Disappointment burned cold in his chest.
Not anger at Nivi.
At Prem.
The cage was tighter than he thought.
The man didn’t just protect — he buried.
Back home that evening, Prem burst through the door, excited.
“Big news! Rohan brought a client today — logistics guy, serious money. Meeting got postponed, but it’s happening tomorrow. This could be huge.”
Nivi looked up from the kitchen, stirring sambar.
She hadn’t known Rohan was coming.
Hadn’t been told anything.
Her path — the one that had briefly opened at the lunch table, the one where someone saw her mind, her worth — blurred again.
Closed by Prem. Without a word.
For the first time in years, something dark stirred in her.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t congratulate.
Quietly, in her heart, she prayed:
Let his meeting fail tomorrow.
Let this meeting go wrong.
Just once.
Let him feel what it’s like when dreams are taken away.
That night, in his penthouse, Rohan sat with a whiskey, staring at his phone.
Prem’s words echoed.
“Just a homemaker.”
He had been so close.
One meeting. One chance to pull her in properly.
Now blocked by the same man who claimed to love her.
His hands trembled slightly as he opened a new message to Nivi.
Typed:
Need to discuss tomorrow’s pitch urgently. Can we talk?
Then deleted it.
Too forward.
Too risky.
He set the phone down.
Across the city, in their bedroom, Prem already asleep, Nivi lay awake.
The lunch. The rain. The overcoat.
The way Rohan had looked at her when she spoke.
No one — not even Prem in their best days — had looked at her like that.
Like she was capable.
Powerful.
Seen.
Her fingers hovered over her phone.
She opened messages.
Found Rohan’s name.
Typed:
Thank you again for the other day. The clients… everything.
Then paused.
Deleted.
Typed again:
Prem said the meeting was postponed. Is everything okay?
Her thumb hovered over send.
Then stopped.
She set the phone face-down.
Both of them — miles apart — stared at dark ceilings.
Wanting to reach. Afraid to.
The same thought in both minds:
Just once.
Just one message.
But neither sent it.
They slept. Uneasy. Hungry.
The chase paused.
But only for a night.
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