08-01-2026, 12:43 PM
Chapter 2: The Careful Web
In the days that followed, Rohan began what he thought of as "the campaign." Like any marketing expert worth his salary, he understood the importance of research, positioning, and gradual escalation. His target audience: one recently divorced, emotionally vulnerable woman living three floors below him.
He started with casual encounters—"accidentally" being in the lobby when she returned from work, sharing the elevator with purposeful frequency. Their conversations progressed from weather to work to more personal territories. He learned about her disastrous marriage to Rasel, a man whose insecurities had festered until they poisoned everything.
"My body became the problem," Riya confessed one evening in the elevator, surprising herself with her candor. "He said men looked at me too much. Then he decided I must be enjoying their attention."
Rohan offered a sympathetic expression he had practiced in mirror meetings. "Some men can't appreciate what they have."
She had looked at him then with a searching intensity. "You understand? Anika bhabi was beautiful too."
"Beautiful, yes," Rohan said, allowing genuine emotion to surface—not for his dead wife, but for the opportunity before him. "But her illness... it was long. The last year, there was no..."
He let the sentence hang, implying sexual deprivation that wasn't entirely accurate but served his narrative.
Riya's eyes softened. "That must have been difficult."
The following week, he proposed the carpool arrangement. "It's practical," he argued when she hesitated. "We're going the same direction, returning the same time. My car is empty otherwise."
The economic logic appealed to her Dhaka-bred practicality. She agreed, and they exchanged numbers. Rohan saved hers under "Riya-Designer" though he needed no identifier to remember those digits.
Their commute became ritual. They discussed office politics, Dhaka traffic, films they'd seen. Gradually, Rohan shared curated pieces of his history—the loneliness of being a widower, the challenge of parenting a teenage son from a distance, the empty hours in his apartment.
In return, Riya offered fragments of her own story. "Rasel was... inadequate," she said one evening, staring at the stalled traffic on Mirpur Road. "Not just as a husband. In every way."
Rohan let the implication hang between them, fertile ground he would cultivate later.
The digital escalation began naturally. Late-night WhatsApp messages started with innocent questions about building maintenance, evolved to sharing articles and memes, then progressed to what Rohan considered "phase two": light flirtation.
Rohan: That presentation must have been brutal today. You sounded exhausted.
Riya: My brain is melted. Need something strong.
Rohan: I have single malt. Too strong?
Riya: For a divorced woman from Dhaka? Nothing is too strong.
He smiled at his phone. The self-deprecating humor was a promising sign.
Weeks passed, and their interactions grew more physically intimate in small, deniable increments. At a book fair at Bangla Academy, he took her elbow to guide her through a crowd. His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary. She didn't pull away.
At a concert at Army Stadium, when the crowd surged forward, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. He felt the generous curve of her breast press against his ribcage, the warmth of her body through their clothes.
"You're very protective," she said afterward, her voice carrying a note he couldn't quite decipher.
"For friends," he said, establishing the category while suggesting it might be temporary.
Then came the Friday revelation. They were having coffee at a café in Gulshan when Riya mentioned her parents' upcoming trip to Sylhet.
"They'll be gone five days," she said. "I was supposed to go, but this client presentation..."
Rohan's mind began working immediately, calculating angles and opportunities. "When is the presentation?"
"Sunday. But I'm nowhere near ready."
"I could help," he offered casually. "I've done hundreds of presentations. It's basically my job."
Her gratitude was immediate and effusive. "Would you? Really?"
"Of course. We're friends."
He suggested his apartment—more private, fewer distractions than a coffee shop. She agreed without hesitation, a trust he found both touching and useful.
That night, alone in his bed, Rohan planned with the precision of a general. He would clean the apartment thoroughly, select the right music—something atmospheric but not obvious. He would wear clothes that showed his physique without appearing trying. Most importantly, he would create the perfect convergence of opportunity and vulnerability.
As he drifted to sleep, his mind wandered through his sexual history, as it often did. There had been so many women, each conquest a temporary balm for the restless hunger that had defined him since adolescence.
In the days that followed, Rohan began what he thought of as "the campaign." Like any marketing expert worth his salary, he understood the importance of research, positioning, and gradual escalation. His target audience: one recently divorced, emotionally vulnerable woman living three floors below him.
He started with casual encounters—"accidentally" being in the lobby when she returned from work, sharing the elevator with purposeful frequency. Their conversations progressed from weather to work to more personal territories. He learned about her disastrous marriage to Rasel, a man whose insecurities had festered until they poisoned everything.
"My body became the problem," Riya confessed one evening in the elevator, surprising herself with her candor. "He said men looked at me too much. Then he decided I must be enjoying their attention."
Rohan offered a sympathetic expression he had practiced in mirror meetings. "Some men can't appreciate what they have."
She had looked at him then with a searching intensity. "You understand? Anika bhabi was beautiful too."
"Beautiful, yes," Rohan said, allowing genuine emotion to surface—not for his dead wife, but for the opportunity before him. "But her illness... it was long. The last year, there was no..."
He let the sentence hang, implying sexual deprivation that wasn't entirely accurate but served his narrative.
Riya's eyes softened. "That must have been difficult."
The following week, he proposed the carpool arrangement. "It's practical," he argued when she hesitated. "We're going the same direction, returning the same time. My car is empty otherwise."
The economic logic appealed to her Dhaka-bred practicality. She agreed, and they exchanged numbers. Rohan saved hers under "Riya-Designer" though he needed no identifier to remember those digits.
Their commute became ritual. They discussed office politics, Dhaka traffic, films they'd seen. Gradually, Rohan shared curated pieces of his history—the loneliness of being a widower, the challenge of parenting a teenage son from a distance, the empty hours in his apartment.
In return, Riya offered fragments of her own story. "Rasel was... inadequate," she said one evening, staring at the stalled traffic on Mirpur Road. "Not just as a husband. In every way."
Rohan let the implication hang between them, fertile ground he would cultivate later.
The digital escalation began naturally. Late-night WhatsApp messages started with innocent questions about building maintenance, evolved to sharing articles and memes, then progressed to what Rohan considered "phase two": light flirtation.
Rohan: That presentation must have been brutal today. You sounded exhausted.
Riya: My brain is melted. Need something strong.
Rohan: I have single malt. Too strong?
Riya: For a divorced woman from Dhaka? Nothing is too strong.
He smiled at his phone. The self-deprecating humor was a promising sign.
Weeks passed, and their interactions grew more physically intimate in small, deniable increments. At a book fair at Bangla Academy, he took her elbow to guide her through a crowd. His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary. She didn't pull away.
At a concert at Army Stadium, when the crowd surged forward, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. He felt the generous curve of her breast press against his ribcage, the warmth of her body through their clothes.
"You're very protective," she said afterward, her voice carrying a note he couldn't quite decipher.
"For friends," he said, establishing the category while suggesting it might be temporary.
Then came the Friday revelation. They were having coffee at a café in Gulshan when Riya mentioned her parents' upcoming trip to Sylhet.
"They'll be gone five days," she said. "I was supposed to go, but this client presentation..."
Rohan's mind began working immediately, calculating angles and opportunities. "When is the presentation?"
"Sunday. But I'm nowhere near ready."
"I could help," he offered casually. "I've done hundreds of presentations. It's basically my job."
Her gratitude was immediate and effusive. "Would you? Really?"
"Of course. We're friends."
He suggested his apartment—more private, fewer distractions than a coffee shop. She agreed without hesitation, a trust he found both touching and useful.
That night, alone in his bed, Rohan planned with the precision of a general. He would clean the apartment thoroughly, select the right music—something atmospheric but not obvious. He would wear clothes that showed his physique without appearing trying. Most importantly, he would create the perfect convergence of opportunity and vulnerability.
As he drifted to sleep, his mind wandered through his sexual history, as it often did. There had been so many women, each conquest a temporary balm for the restless hunger that had defined him since adolescence.
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