Yesterday, 10:59 PM
Part 5: The Price of Silence
The final, devastating call came in the dead of Thursday afternoon, shattering the tense silence of Iqbal’s office. The intercom buzzed—a short, sharp sound that made his stomach drop.
"Cabin. Now."
Iqbal walked the long, carpeted corridor to Mr. Singhania’s executive office like a condemned man walking to the gallows. The central air conditioning felt freezing against his sweat-drenched skin, raising goosebumps on his arms. He pushed open the heavy glass door, entered, and stood rigidly near the entrance, his bloodshot eyes fixed firmly on the plush carpet. He didn't have the courage, or the right, to sit down.
Singhania didn't even bother to look up from the thick file he was reading. The silence in the massive room stretched, heavy, absolute, and suffocating.
"I don't need to ask," Singhania finally said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any human emotion. He slowly closed the file. "Your pale, pathetic face says you failed to arrange the funds."
Iqbal remained completely silent, his breath hitching in his dry throat.
Singhania suddenly slammed his palm flat against the file, the sound cracking like a gunshot in the quiet room. Iqbal flinched. "Relying on a thief like you to fix his own mess was a colossal waste of my time, Iqbal." Singhania reached slowly, deliberately, for the sleek landline receiver on his desk, his manicured fingers hovering over the keypad. "I’m calling the security officer Commissioner. We are done here."
Iqbal lunged forward, the last shred of his arrogant dignity shattering into dust. He grabbed Singhania’s wrist with both hands, stopping him from dialing. "Sir! Please! No security officer! I beg you on my mother's life!" Hot, humiliating tears streamed down his face, dripping onto his expensive tie. He dropped to his knees. "Give me more time! I will sell my apartment! I will sell my wife's gold! I will sell everything I own! I will do anything, Sir! Just don't destroy my family!"
Singhania looked down at the grown man weeping pathetically on his mahogany desk. He slowly, deliberately replaced the receiver on the cradle. A look of mock sympathy—cold, calculated, and deeply predatory—crossed his hardened features. "I really don't know what to do with you, Iqbal. You are useless to me now. But... you leave me no choice."
Singhania stood up, casually smoothing the wrinkles from his tailored suit jacket, and began to pace the length of the room. "There is... one alternative way out of this. A tiny sliver of a chance for you to save your skin and your precious reputation."
Iqbal looked up from the floor, desperate, pathetic hope flickering in his tear-filled eyes. "Tell me, Sir. Anything. I will do anything."
"Mr. Verma is flying in tomorrow," Singhania began, stopping to look out the window at the city below. "He will be at the SIPL office in the morning for the official pleasantries, but as you know, the real, dirty business happens at night. He is staying at the Presidential Suite in the Grand Hotel. I am hosting him for a highly private dinner." Singhania paused, turning slowly to face Iqbal, his silhouette imposing and dark against the bright glass. "You will go home early tomorrow. Get yourself ready. And come to the hotel suite exactly at 8 PM. And Iqbal..." Singhania’s voice dropped a fraction of an octave. "...bring your wife."
Iqbal blinked rapidly, the bizarre request completely failing to register in his panicked brain. "Wife? Shazia? Why her, Sir?"
Singhania’s expression darkened instantly, a flash of genuine anger replacing the calm. "These stupid questions... this exact arrogance is why you are kneeling in this mess right now. You question my orders?"
"No, Sir, I just... I don't understand..."
"You need to learn to respect the strategy of your superiors, Iqbal," Singhania lectured, walking back to his desk. "If I say something, there is a deep, calculated strategy behind it. Mr. Verma is a notoriously difficult, greedy man. However, human psychology is a funny thing. If he sees you arrive with your family, he might subconsciously feel a sense of domestic compassion. A traditional, family setting disarms aggressive men like him. He will hesitate to ask for his usual heavy cash bribes or make his disgusting, lavish demands if a respectable lady is present in the room. Instead of a cold, cutthroat professional shakedown, the evening becomes a warm family get-together. It makes him comfortable, it softens his guard, and we can win the Metro deal... hopefully."
Iqbal nodded slowly, getting back on his feet. In his incredibly desperate, sleep-deprived state, Singhania's twisted, manipulative logic sounded almost plausible. A family shield. A moral buffer against a corrupt official. "Okay, Sir. I understand the plan. I will bring her."
Iqbal turned to leave the cabin, his legs weak with the overwhelming relief that he had a final chance to avoid a prison cell.
"Iqbal, wait."
Singhania was leaning against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, a dark, calculating look in his predatory eyes. "Don't come to the Grand Hotel looking like beggars off the street. This is a high-profile, high-stakes meeting. You know exactly the elite class Mr. Verma belongs to. Dress impeccably. And your wife..." Singhania scanned Iqbal from head to toe with a critical, dismissive sneer. "Ask her to wear a good saree. In fact, maybe I should ask Padma, my secretary, to buy a designer piece and send it directly to your house? She knows the latest high-society fashion."
Absolute panic flared in Iqbal’s chest, burning like acid. Padma was the biggest office gossip in SIPL. If she got involved in dressing his wife, the humiliating truth of his desperation would spread through the accounting department like wildfire.
"No, Sir! Please, why involve Padma?" Iqbal stammered quickly, his hands shaking. "My wife has sarees. She has a cupboard full of expensive silk and traditional wear. I will tell her to wear any heavy saree. She will look perfectly respectable."
Singhania interrupted him, his voice slicing through the air, sharp and deadly. "Did I say any saree? Iqbal, if your wife walks into that five-star suite wearing some dull, heavily covered-up cotton thing that makes her look like a sack of potatoes, you can walk straight from the hotel lobby to the nearest security officer station and surrender yourself."
Iqbal froze, the blood draining from his face once again. "Sorry, Sir. I meant... I will make sure she wears her absolute best saree."
Singhania pushed off the desk and walked slowly toward Iqbal, invading his personal space until Iqbal could smell the sharp, expensive cologne radiating from the older man.
"Not just 'best', Iqbal. Listen to me very, very carefully. In these deals, the visual presentation is everything."
Singhania’s voice dropped to a low, authoritative purr, detailing the sickening requirement with an unsettling, meticulous precision that made Iqbal's stomach churn. "The saree she wears must be... extremely modern. None of that thick, opaque traditional nonsense that you see low-class, conservative women prefer to hide behind. I want her dbangd in sheer chiffon, or perhaps a very fine, delicate net. It must be transparent. Revealing. Exactly like the high-class, sophisticated women wear at these elite parties."
Iqbal’s mouth opened slightly, sheer horror registering on his face as the reality of the demand sank in.
"And the blouse," Singhania continued relentlessly, his dark eyes boring into Iqbal’s terrified ones. "Make absolutely sure it is sleeveless. And perhaps... tell her to have the tailor cut it a little low. A modern, deep neck type."
"Sir?" Iqbal whispered, his voice cracking, a cold sweat creeping up his spine. He was being ordered to undress his wife for his boss.
"She needs to look highly attractive, Iqbal. Do you understand plain English?" Singhania paused for maximum effect, letting the dirty word hang heavily in the cold, air-conditioned air. "Sexy. She should look sexy enough to completely scramble Mr. Verma's brain and make him forget about his cash demands. The entire goal of bringing her is absolute distraction. If she sits in the corner looking like a covered-up nun, he will focus his sharp mind on the financial flaws in our tender bid and our competitors might get a chance to offer him what he wants. But, if she is highly pleasing to the eye, cooperative, and visibly charming, he will be pliable. We need her to completely captivate him."
Singhania leaned in closer, his face mere inches from Iqbal’s sweating forehead. "If you are not one hundred percent confident that your wife has the body or the guts to pull off that specific look that I described, let me know right now. I will make other, more professional 'arrangements' for Mr. Verma's evening, and I will simultaneously make arrangements for you to rot in a central jail cell for the next ten years."
Iqbal stood there paralyzed, the disgusting words hitting him like physical, bruising blows. His mind raced to Shazia. His conservative, obedient, beautiful wife... the woman he violently forbade from opening the front door to a thirsty delivery man without covering her chest... the woman he screamed at for looking at her own phone. Now, he was being explicitly ordered to dress her in a transparent, see-through saree and a deep-cut, sleeveless blouse... serving her up as visual meat for another man’s viewing pleasure.
The hypocrisy and irony were sickening, burning like bile in his throat. But the alternative was the cold steel of handcuffs and the total destruction of his life.
"Okay... Sir," Iqbal stammered, his voice barely a ghost of a whisper, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
"I wonder what your weak 'okay' actually means," Singhania sneered, turning his back on Iqbal, walking back to his desk, and flipping open a file, dismissing him like a pesky insect. "Go home now. Prepare her. And Iqbal? Do not put me to shame in front of Mr. Verma."
Iqbal turned and walked out of the office, his legs as heavy as lead. He had successfully saved his prestigious job and his freedom for one more night, but as he walked down the long, silent corridor, he knew exactly what piece of his soul—and his wife's dignity—he had just sold to the devil.
The final, devastating call came in the dead of Thursday afternoon, shattering the tense silence of Iqbal’s office. The intercom buzzed—a short, sharp sound that made his stomach drop.
"Cabin. Now."
Iqbal walked the long, carpeted corridor to Mr. Singhania’s executive office like a condemned man walking to the gallows. The central air conditioning felt freezing against his sweat-drenched skin, raising goosebumps on his arms. He pushed open the heavy glass door, entered, and stood rigidly near the entrance, his bloodshot eyes fixed firmly on the plush carpet. He didn't have the courage, or the right, to sit down.
Singhania didn't even bother to look up from the thick file he was reading. The silence in the massive room stretched, heavy, absolute, and suffocating.
"I don't need to ask," Singhania finally said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any human emotion. He slowly closed the file. "Your pale, pathetic face says you failed to arrange the funds."
Iqbal remained completely silent, his breath hitching in his dry throat.
Singhania suddenly slammed his palm flat against the file, the sound cracking like a gunshot in the quiet room. Iqbal flinched. "Relying on a thief like you to fix his own mess was a colossal waste of my time, Iqbal." Singhania reached slowly, deliberately, for the sleek landline receiver on his desk, his manicured fingers hovering over the keypad. "I’m calling the security officer Commissioner. We are done here."
Iqbal lunged forward, the last shred of his arrogant dignity shattering into dust. He grabbed Singhania’s wrist with both hands, stopping him from dialing. "Sir! Please! No security officer! I beg you on my mother's life!" Hot, humiliating tears streamed down his face, dripping onto his expensive tie. He dropped to his knees. "Give me more time! I will sell my apartment! I will sell my wife's gold! I will sell everything I own! I will do anything, Sir! Just don't destroy my family!"
Singhania looked down at the grown man weeping pathetically on his mahogany desk. He slowly, deliberately replaced the receiver on the cradle. A look of mock sympathy—cold, calculated, and deeply predatory—crossed his hardened features. "I really don't know what to do with you, Iqbal. You are useless to me now. But... you leave me no choice."
Singhania stood up, casually smoothing the wrinkles from his tailored suit jacket, and began to pace the length of the room. "There is... one alternative way out of this. A tiny sliver of a chance for you to save your skin and your precious reputation."
Iqbal looked up from the floor, desperate, pathetic hope flickering in his tear-filled eyes. "Tell me, Sir. Anything. I will do anything."
"Mr. Verma is flying in tomorrow," Singhania began, stopping to look out the window at the city below. "He will be at the SIPL office in the morning for the official pleasantries, but as you know, the real, dirty business happens at night. He is staying at the Presidential Suite in the Grand Hotel. I am hosting him for a highly private dinner." Singhania paused, turning slowly to face Iqbal, his silhouette imposing and dark against the bright glass. "You will go home early tomorrow. Get yourself ready. And come to the hotel suite exactly at 8 PM. And Iqbal..." Singhania’s voice dropped a fraction of an octave. "...bring your wife."
Iqbal blinked rapidly, the bizarre request completely failing to register in his panicked brain. "Wife? Shazia? Why her, Sir?"
Singhania’s expression darkened instantly, a flash of genuine anger replacing the calm. "These stupid questions... this exact arrogance is why you are kneeling in this mess right now. You question my orders?"
"No, Sir, I just... I don't understand..."
"You need to learn to respect the strategy of your superiors, Iqbal," Singhania lectured, walking back to his desk. "If I say something, there is a deep, calculated strategy behind it. Mr. Verma is a notoriously difficult, greedy man. However, human psychology is a funny thing. If he sees you arrive with your family, he might subconsciously feel a sense of domestic compassion. A traditional, family setting disarms aggressive men like him. He will hesitate to ask for his usual heavy cash bribes or make his disgusting, lavish demands if a respectable lady is present in the room. Instead of a cold, cutthroat professional shakedown, the evening becomes a warm family get-together. It makes him comfortable, it softens his guard, and we can win the Metro deal... hopefully."
Iqbal nodded slowly, getting back on his feet. In his incredibly desperate, sleep-deprived state, Singhania's twisted, manipulative logic sounded almost plausible. A family shield. A moral buffer against a corrupt official. "Okay, Sir. I understand the plan. I will bring her."
Iqbal turned to leave the cabin, his legs weak with the overwhelming relief that he had a final chance to avoid a prison cell.
"Iqbal, wait."
Singhania was leaning against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, a dark, calculating look in his predatory eyes. "Don't come to the Grand Hotel looking like beggars off the street. This is a high-profile, high-stakes meeting. You know exactly the elite class Mr. Verma belongs to. Dress impeccably. And your wife..." Singhania scanned Iqbal from head to toe with a critical, dismissive sneer. "Ask her to wear a good saree. In fact, maybe I should ask Padma, my secretary, to buy a designer piece and send it directly to your house? She knows the latest high-society fashion."
Absolute panic flared in Iqbal’s chest, burning like acid. Padma was the biggest office gossip in SIPL. If she got involved in dressing his wife, the humiliating truth of his desperation would spread through the accounting department like wildfire.
"No, Sir! Please, why involve Padma?" Iqbal stammered quickly, his hands shaking. "My wife has sarees. She has a cupboard full of expensive silk and traditional wear. I will tell her to wear any heavy saree. She will look perfectly respectable."
Singhania interrupted him, his voice slicing through the air, sharp and deadly. "Did I say any saree? Iqbal, if your wife walks into that five-star suite wearing some dull, heavily covered-up cotton thing that makes her look like a sack of potatoes, you can walk straight from the hotel lobby to the nearest security officer station and surrender yourself."
Iqbal froze, the blood draining from his face once again. "Sorry, Sir. I meant... I will make sure she wears her absolute best saree."
Singhania pushed off the desk and walked slowly toward Iqbal, invading his personal space until Iqbal could smell the sharp, expensive cologne radiating from the older man.
"Not just 'best', Iqbal. Listen to me very, very carefully. In these deals, the visual presentation is everything."
Singhania’s voice dropped to a low, authoritative purr, detailing the sickening requirement with an unsettling, meticulous precision that made Iqbal's stomach churn. "The saree she wears must be... extremely modern. None of that thick, opaque traditional nonsense that you see low-class, conservative women prefer to hide behind. I want her dbangd in sheer chiffon, or perhaps a very fine, delicate net. It must be transparent. Revealing. Exactly like the high-class, sophisticated women wear at these elite parties."
Iqbal’s mouth opened slightly, sheer horror registering on his face as the reality of the demand sank in.
"And the blouse," Singhania continued relentlessly, his dark eyes boring into Iqbal’s terrified ones. "Make absolutely sure it is sleeveless. And perhaps... tell her to have the tailor cut it a little low. A modern, deep neck type."
"Sir?" Iqbal whispered, his voice cracking, a cold sweat creeping up his spine. He was being ordered to undress his wife for his boss.
"She needs to look highly attractive, Iqbal. Do you understand plain English?" Singhania paused for maximum effect, letting the dirty word hang heavily in the cold, air-conditioned air. "Sexy. She should look sexy enough to completely scramble Mr. Verma's brain and make him forget about his cash demands. The entire goal of bringing her is absolute distraction. If she sits in the corner looking like a covered-up nun, he will focus his sharp mind on the financial flaws in our tender bid and our competitors might get a chance to offer him what he wants. But, if she is highly pleasing to the eye, cooperative, and visibly charming, he will be pliable. We need her to completely captivate him."
Singhania leaned in closer, his face mere inches from Iqbal’s sweating forehead. "If you are not one hundred percent confident that your wife has the body or the guts to pull off that specific look that I described, let me know right now. I will make other, more professional 'arrangements' for Mr. Verma's evening, and I will simultaneously make arrangements for you to rot in a central jail cell for the next ten years."
Iqbal stood there paralyzed, the disgusting words hitting him like physical, bruising blows. His mind raced to Shazia. His conservative, obedient, beautiful wife... the woman he violently forbade from opening the front door to a thirsty delivery man without covering her chest... the woman he screamed at for looking at her own phone. Now, he was being explicitly ordered to dress her in a transparent, see-through saree and a deep-cut, sleeveless blouse... serving her up as visual meat for another man’s viewing pleasure.
The hypocrisy and irony were sickening, burning like bile in his throat. But the alternative was the cold steel of handcuffs and the total destruction of his life.
"Okay... Sir," Iqbal stammered, his voice barely a ghost of a whisper, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
"I wonder what your weak 'okay' actually means," Singhania sneered, turning his back on Iqbal, walking back to his desk, and flipping open a file, dismissing him like a pesky insect. "Go home now. Prepare her. And Iqbal? Do not put me to shame in front of Mr. Verma."
Iqbal turned and walked out of the office, his legs as heavy as lead. He had successfully saved his prestigious job and his freedom for one more night, but as he walked down the long, silent corridor, he knew exactly what piece of his soul—and his wife's dignity—he had just sold to the devil.
Disclaimer:
All photos, GIFs, and videos are either own or derived from the internet. PM for complaint/removal of any posted content.
All photos, GIFs, and videos are either own or derived from the internet. PM for complaint/removal of any posted content.
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