13-03-2026, 07:39 PM
Story Prologue:
Somewhere in Mumbai ....
In the rooftop of a Pub
Rahul sits alone at a corner table near the edge, back to the railing, the skyline a blurred smear of neon behind him. The air smells of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic tang of impending rain.
His hands tremble as he grips the phone, knuckles white, thumbs hovering over the play button like they're afraid to commit. The video thumbnail stares back — grainy, frozen on a Hotel bedroom door cracked open. His heart hammers so hard it feels like it's bruising his ribs from inside.
He taps play.
The video loads in agonizing slow motion, pixels stuttering into focus. Tinny sound leaks from the speaker: soft, rhythmic moans, bedsprings protesting, a low male voice murmuring words too muffled to catch. Then her face fills the frame.
Anandhi.
His Anandhi.
Flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Her body arches — familiar curves he once worshipped — now rising to meet another man’s thrusts. Her hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in the way they used to dig into Rahul’s back. Her legs wrap tight around the shadowed figure, pulling him deeper. Intimate. Willing. Lost in it.
Rahul’s breath seizes in his chest. Everything stops, heart, lungs, thought. The world collapses to the tiny glowing screen.
Nausea hits first: hot, sour, surging up his throat like acid. His stomach clenches violently, as if punched from the inside. He swallows hard, but it only makes the burn worse. Then rage crashes in, pure, white-hot, drowning everything else. Hotter than the whiskey still coating his tongue. His vision tunnels; the rooftop lights smear into angry red streaks.
He replays it. Once. Twice. Zooming in on her face, desperate for something — hesitation, coercion, anything to say this isn’t real. Nothing. Just pleasure. Her lips parted in a gasp he knows too well. The way her hips roll up to meet him.
“You bitch…” The words slip out low, cracked, barely audible over the pub’s distant bass. But they taste like blood in his mouth.
“You’re cheating on me?!”
Tears sting hot behind his eyes, but he blinks them back furiously. Rage won’t let them fall yet. Instead, humiliation floods in next — thick, suffocating. All those years: call-center nights bleeding into dawn, every rupee wired home, every skipped call because he was “too tired,” every fantasy of coming back to her arms. Wasted. She was supposed to be waiting. Loyal. His. Instead, she’s giving herself to someone else while he rots in this city.
He was restless, He could not believe it... he replayed again just to make sure it was not anandhi
He replays again. Her moan hits him like a slap. His free hand claws at his shirt, as if he can tear the pain out of his chest. Memories collide: her quiet laugh in their old flat, the way she’d press against him after the kids slept, whispering “soon, we’ll be together again.” Lies. Every tender moment now poisoned.
Something inside him snaps — not clean, but jagged. The phone slips from his shaking fingers, clattering face-down. He stares at it, breathing ragged, chest heaving like he’s run miles. The rage coils tighter, mixing with grief, self-loathing, disbelief.
“You bitch,” he mutters again, voice breaking on the word.
Louder this time. “You fucking cheated on me.”
Somewhere in Mumbai ....
In the rooftop of a Pub
Rahul sits alone at a corner table near the edge, back to the railing, the skyline a blurred smear of neon behind him. The air smells of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic tang of impending rain.
His hands tremble as he grips the phone, knuckles white, thumbs hovering over the play button like they're afraid to commit. The video thumbnail stares back — grainy, frozen on a Hotel bedroom door cracked open. His heart hammers so hard it feels like it's bruising his ribs from inside.
He taps play.
The video loads in agonizing slow motion, pixels stuttering into focus. Tinny sound leaks from the speaker: soft, rhythmic moans, bedsprings protesting, a low male voice murmuring words too muffled to catch. Then her face fills the frame.
Anandhi.
His Anandhi.
Flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Her body arches — familiar curves he once worshipped — now rising to meet another man’s thrusts. Her hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in the way they used to dig into Rahul’s back. Her legs wrap tight around the shadowed figure, pulling him deeper. Intimate. Willing. Lost in it.
Rahul’s breath seizes in his chest. Everything stops, heart, lungs, thought. The world collapses to the tiny glowing screen.
Nausea hits first: hot, sour, surging up his throat like acid. His stomach clenches violently, as if punched from the inside. He swallows hard, but it only makes the burn worse. Then rage crashes in, pure, white-hot, drowning everything else. Hotter than the whiskey still coating his tongue. His vision tunnels; the rooftop lights smear into angry red streaks.
He replays it. Once. Twice. Zooming in on her face, desperate for something — hesitation, coercion, anything to say this isn’t real. Nothing. Just pleasure. Her lips parted in a gasp he knows too well. The way her hips roll up to meet him.
“You bitch…” The words slip out low, cracked, barely audible over the pub’s distant bass. But they taste like blood in his mouth.
“You’re cheating on me?!”
Tears sting hot behind his eyes, but he blinks them back furiously. Rage won’t let them fall yet. Instead, humiliation floods in next — thick, suffocating. All those years: call-center nights bleeding into dawn, every rupee wired home, every skipped call because he was “too tired,” every fantasy of coming back to her arms. Wasted. She was supposed to be waiting. Loyal. His. Instead, she’s giving herself to someone else while he rots in this city.
He was restless, He could not believe it... he replayed again just to make sure it was not anandhi
He replays again. Her moan hits him like a slap. His free hand claws at his shirt, as if he can tear the pain out of his chest. Memories collide: her quiet laugh in their old flat, the way she’d press against him after the kids slept, whispering “soon, we’ll be together again.” Lies. Every tender moment now poisoned.
Something inside him snaps — not clean, but jagged. The phone slips from his shaking fingers, clattering face-down. He stares at it, breathing ragged, chest heaving like he’s run miles. The rage coils tighter, mixing with grief, self-loathing, disbelief.
“You bitch,” he mutters again, voice breaking on the word.
Louder this time. “You fucking cheated on me.”
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