04-09-2026, 11:28 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-09-2026, 03:23 AM by Kabib. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Still the setting up....No Erotic Part!!!
“All these efforts for fucking 30 lakhs” Vikram whispered, though he was currently staring at a gold-plated ceiling that cost more than the current balance of his checking account.
Wearing a silk robe that cost four thousand dollars and a facial expression that suggested he is very angry at his luck. His net worth was all in land, properties, and Copyrights reels totaling a thousand crores, but if he wanted to buy a sandwich right now he doesn't have cash unless he sell some of those, which Vikram was dead against..
Amjad sat opposite him, chewing on a toothpick. He was a "lawyer" in the sense that he knew which palms to grease at the district court and which judges liked their bribes in cash rather than checks.
"You're a dramatic idiot, Vik," Amjad said, his voice a gravelly rasp. "You’ve got half of South Bombay in your pocket, but you're crying because you can't afford the petrol to drive to the bank. "It’s Funny"
Vikram groaned, rolling off the lounge. "Thirty lakhs. That’s what the event organizers paid me for the awards show. After the decorators and the sound techs, I'm left with enough to buy a Coffee. If i don't come up with something, the business and people will forget if i ever existed.
Amjad spat the toothpick out with a wet *thwack*. "Stop mourning your bank balance and look at the offer on the table. This new OTT platform that the Khan sir is going to launch, He got a massive ego and a massive budget. he is dropping a thirty-crore movie every month for six months straight. But here’s the gap: they have no filler. They need the same consistency. They need small films to keep the subscribers from engaged between the big releases."
"Sell something", Amjad continued "all you need is 25 crores to secure the deal, once the OTT goes into share market, it will rain money". Vikram looked at Amjad with a loathing look and said " this is what you street born brain don't understand, if i sell 25 crores property now and i have to get it back after 2 years, i need get 50 crores also my family is not here by selling what we got", Vikram was looking at mobile screen notification and lost in thoughts.
Amjad shifted his weight, the cheap leather of his briefcase creaking. He looked at Vikram, then at the gold-plated ceiling, then back to Vikram. "Speaking of family," he started, his voice dropping into that suggestive, knowing tone that usually preceded bad news or a dirty joke. "How’s it going with Anasuya Babhi? ".
Vikram’s thumb hovered over the notification on his phone, the screen’s cold glow reflecting in his eyes. Some fresh post of Anasuya’s, another carefully angled mirror selfie in a back exposed saree, caption dripping with heart-eye emojis and a link to some brand that paid her in exposure more than actual money. He locked the phone with a sharp click and tossed it onto the lounge beside him. “Don’t start with that,” he muttered, not looking at Amjad. Amjad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the cheap briefcase still balanced against his leg. “I’m starting. You’ve been married to the woman for what 19 years? And every time I see her face on those reels it’s like she’s auditioning for something cheaper than the last one. So? Still the same plan?”
Vikram dragged a hand down his face. The silk robe slid open a little at the chest; he didn’t bother closing it. “You think I wanted this? You think if I could go back I’d still pick the girl who films herself putting on lotion for strangers instead of someone whose father owns half the shipping yards or sits on the board of a bank? Someone whose surname alone could open doors without me having to smile and beg?” He stood up, pacing once across the marble, bare feet silent. “Her posts… the way she opens her legs for the camera just enough, the thirst traps, the ‘come join my exclusive content’ bullshit. Low-class. Completely low-class. And I’m the one who has to pretend it’s empowering while every uncle at the club asks me how I ‘let’ my wife do that. I have no choice. The algorithm eats it up. The brands keep calling. So I smile. I share her stories. I play the supportive husband.” Amjad waited, toothpick already gone, just watching. “Three hundred crores,” Vikram said, the number tasting bitter. “That’s what the papers say she’s worth now. Three hundred. Built on my guest list, my producers, my old film contacts who still answer my calls because they remember when I mattered. She didn’t earn that. She rode it. And if I divorce her the normal way she’ll walk away with half of everything that’s actually mine, the land, the copyrights, the properties that have been in my family’s name longer than she’s been alive.”
He stopped pacing and fixed Amjad with a hard stare. “Yes. I’m still on the plan. But I can’t just file. Courts love a crying influencer these days. She’ll play the victim, the independent woman crushed by the big bad producer husband. Half my net worth gone overnight. I won’t survive that. Not with the liquidity I have right now.” Amjad’s voice stayed low. “So you still think she’s Cheating on you?"
Vikram’s jaw tightened. “I don’t think. I know. The late-night ‘brand meetings’ that run past midnight. The sudden trips to Dubai or Goa with her ‘manager’ who’s double her age, that bastard Rashid. The way her phone locks the second I walk into the room. She’s careful. Too careful. But if I catch her properly, with proof that even her PR team can’t spin , then the divorce is clean. No alimony Drama. No splitting the Property. Just her walking out with whatever she actually brought 20 years back , which is close to nothing.”
He picked the phone up again, staring at the dark screen as if it might confess something.“ I need her red-handed, Amjad. Not suspicions. Not screenshots. Something solid. Something that holds up in front of a judge who can’t be bought with her tears. Until then I keep the silk robe on, I keep smiling at her parties, and I keep pretending this gold ceiling is enough to make me forget how trapped I am.” Amjad sat back slowly, the leather of the briefcase creaking once more. “Then we stop talking about petrol money and start talking about how we get that proof.”
Amjad slowly said, his voice lower that ever " what about the kid then?", looked up to catch the glimpse in Vikrams face. Vikram calmly replied " what about him?, i never cared about him" , Amjad left the empty room in silence......
“All these efforts for fucking 30 lakhs” Vikram whispered, though he was currently staring at a gold-plated ceiling that cost more than the current balance of his checking account.
Wearing a silk robe that cost four thousand dollars and a facial expression that suggested he is very angry at his luck. His net worth was all in land, properties, and Copyrights reels totaling a thousand crores, but if he wanted to buy a sandwich right now he doesn't have cash unless he sell some of those, which Vikram was dead against..
Amjad sat opposite him, chewing on a toothpick. He was a "lawyer" in the sense that he knew which palms to grease at the district court and which judges liked their bribes in cash rather than checks.
"You're a dramatic idiot, Vik," Amjad said, his voice a gravelly rasp. "You’ve got half of South Bombay in your pocket, but you're crying because you can't afford the petrol to drive to the bank. "It’s Funny"
Vikram groaned, rolling off the lounge. "Thirty lakhs. That’s what the event organizers paid me for the awards show. After the decorators and the sound techs, I'm left with enough to buy a Coffee. If i don't come up with something, the business and people will forget if i ever existed.
Amjad spat the toothpick out with a wet *thwack*. "Stop mourning your bank balance and look at the offer on the table. This new OTT platform that the Khan sir is going to launch, He got a massive ego and a massive budget. he is dropping a thirty-crore movie every month for six months straight. But here’s the gap: they have no filler. They need the same consistency. They need small films to keep the subscribers from engaged between the big releases."
"Sell something", Amjad continued "all you need is 25 crores to secure the deal, once the OTT goes into share market, it will rain money". Vikram looked at Amjad with a loathing look and said " this is what you street born brain don't understand, if i sell 25 crores property now and i have to get it back after 2 years, i need get 50 crores also my family is not here by selling what we got", Vikram was looking at mobile screen notification and lost in thoughts.
Amjad shifted his weight, the cheap leather of his briefcase creaking. He looked at Vikram, then at the gold-plated ceiling, then back to Vikram. "Speaking of family," he started, his voice dropping into that suggestive, knowing tone that usually preceded bad news or a dirty joke. "How’s it going with Anasuya Babhi? ".
Vikram’s thumb hovered over the notification on his phone, the screen’s cold glow reflecting in his eyes. Some fresh post of Anasuya’s, another carefully angled mirror selfie in a back exposed saree, caption dripping with heart-eye emojis and a link to some brand that paid her in exposure more than actual money. He locked the phone with a sharp click and tossed it onto the lounge beside him. “Don’t start with that,” he muttered, not looking at Amjad. Amjad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the cheap briefcase still balanced against his leg. “I’m starting. You’ve been married to the woman for what 19 years? And every time I see her face on those reels it’s like she’s auditioning for something cheaper than the last one. So? Still the same plan?”
Vikram dragged a hand down his face. The silk robe slid open a little at the chest; he didn’t bother closing it. “You think I wanted this? You think if I could go back I’d still pick the girl who films herself putting on lotion for strangers instead of someone whose father owns half the shipping yards or sits on the board of a bank? Someone whose surname alone could open doors without me having to smile and beg?” He stood up, pacing once across the marble, bare feet silent. “Her posts… the way she opens her legs for the camera just enough, the thirst traps, the ‘come join my exclusive content’ bullshit. Low-class. Completely low-class. And I’m the one who has to pretend it’s empowering while every uncle at the club asks me how I ‘let’ my wife do that. I have no choice. The algorithm eats it up. The brands keep calling. So I smile. I share her stories. I play the supportive husband.” Amjad waited, toothpick already gone, just watching. “Three hundred crores,” Vikram said, the number tasting bitter. “That’s what the papers say she’s worth now. Three hundred. Built on my guest list, my producers, my old film contacts who still answer my calls because they remember when I mattered. She didn’t earn that. She rode it. And if I divorce her the normal way she’ll walk away with half of everything that’s actually mine, the land, the copyrights, the properties that have been in my family’s name longer than she’s been alive.”
He stopped pacing and fixed Amjad with a hard stare. “Yes. I’m still on the plan. But I can’t just file. Courts love a crying influencer these days. She’ll play the victim, the independent woman crushed by the big bad producer husband. Half my net worth gone overnight. I won’t survive that. Not with the liquidity I have right now.” Amjad’s voice stayed low. “So you still think she’s Cheating on you?"
Vikram’s jaw tightened. “I don’t think. I know. The late-night ‘brand meetings’ that run past midnight. The sudden trips to Dubai or Goa with her ‘manager’ who’s double her age, that bastard Rashid. The way her phone locks the second I walk into the room. She’s careful. Too careful. But if I catch her properly, with proof that even her PR team can’t spin , then the divorce is clean. No alimony Drama. No splitting the Property. Just her walking out with whatever she actually brought 20 years back , which is close to nothing.”
He picked the phone up again, staring at the dark screen as if it might confess something.“ I need her red-handed, Amjad. Not suspicions. Not screenshots. Something solid. Something that holds up in front of a judge who can’t be bought with her tears. Until then I keep the silk robe on, I keep smiling at her parties, and I keep pretending this gold ceiling is enough to make me forget how trapped I am.” Amjad sat back slowly, the leather of the briefcase creaking once more. “Then we stop talking about petrol money and start talking about how we get that proof.”
Amjad slowly said, his voice lower that ever " what about the kid then?", looked up to catch the glimpse in Vikrams face. Vikram calmly replied " what about him?, i never cared about him" , Amjad left the empty room in silence......
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