Yesterday, 10:48 PM
The Art of Falling
Chapter 1: The Numbers don't lie
The autumn wind nipped at Sejal’s thighs as she hurried down 8th Avenue, her phone screen burning with the truth she already knew.
$1,243.18
Pathetic.
Three years of a master’s degree in economics, and here she was—still trapped in the same cycle of rent, loan payments, and the soul-crushing grind of serving overpriced cocktails to people who’d never understand her desperation. She exhaled sharply, tucking her phone away before the sight of that number could suffocate her completely.
The neon sign of Velvet buzzed to life as she approached, its deep crimson glow staining the sidewalk like spilled wine. Inside, the lounge hummed with low conversations and the clink of ice against glass. The air smelled of bourbon, expensive perfume, and the quiet hunger of New York’s elite.
Sejal adjusted the cuffs of her fitted white satin shirt—sleek, slightly sheer, tucked into a black mini skirt that hugged every curve. The thigh-high stockings she wore made her legs look endless, the kind of detail that earned her better tips but also lingering stares. She hated how much she’d learned to weaponize her own body.
“Cutting it close, princesa,” Mateo muttered as she tied her apron. The bartender’s eyes flicked over her outfit, but he knew better than to comment.
“Traffic,” she lied smoothly, rolling her shoulders back.
Then they walked in.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair swept back in a way that screamed old money. His suit was immaculate—midnight blue, tailored to perfection. But it was the woman beside him who made Sejal pause.
She was younger than him—mid-forties, maybe—with honey-blonde hair cascading in loose waves over one shoulder. Her dress was understated but expensive, the kind that clung just enough to suggest wealth without effort.
They took a booth in Sejal’s section, the man’s hand resting possessively on the small of his wife’s back.
Sejal approached, forcing her customer-service smile into place. “Welcome to Velvet. Can I start you with something to drink?”
The man’s gaze dragged over her—slow, assessing. Not leering, but noticing. His wife’s eyes flicked up, sharp and amused, as if she’d caught him.
“A Manhattan for me,” the man said, his voice smooth, faintly accented—Indian, but softened by years abroad. “And a gin martini for my wife. Extra dry.”
The woman smirked, her fingers tapping the table. “And make sure it’s cold.”
Sejal nodded, but as she turned, she felt their eyes still on her. The weight of it prickled down her spine.
Rich couples. She knew the type. Knew the games they played.
Sejal returned with their drinks, her hips swaying just slightly—unintentional, a habit born from balancing trays in crowded spaces. But Rajan Malhotra noticed.
His dark eyes tracked her like a predator studying its next meal. The white satin of her shirt clung to the dip of her waist, the fabric sheer enough to hint at the soft curve of her breasts when she leaned forward to set down his Manhattan. The black mini skirt hugged her like a second skin, riding up just a fraction as she bent—enough to reveal the taut line where her thigh-high stockings met bare skin.
Youth. That’s what he was drinking in, more than the liquor. The way her collarbones peeked from beneath her shirt, the defiant set of her jaw even as she played the part of the obedient waitress. She was all sharp edges and hidden fire, and Rajan wanted to see how far that fire could burn.
His fingers twitched around his glass, imagining the weight of her hip under his palm.
Across the table, Nandini watched—not her husband’s wandering gaze, but Sejal herself. Her assessment was colder, more calculated. The girl had the kind of beauty that wasn’t just pretty; it was useful. High cheekbones, full lips that could pout or part in surprise, eyes that held a flicker of intelligence behind the practiced demureness.
Nandini’s gaze dropped to Sejal’s hands—slender fingers, nails painted a muted rose. No rings. No signs of a life that could interfere. Good.
“You’re Indian,” Nandini stated, her voice smooth as the gin in her glass. Not a question. An observation.
Sejal stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”
“But not from here.” Nandini’s smile was a razor wrapped in silk. “I can always tell. The way you carry yourself. Like you’re still deciding whether this city owns you or if you’ll ever really belong to it.”
Rajan chuckled, swirling his drink. “My wife has a habit of reading people. It’s why our business thrives.”
Sejal’s pulse jumped at the way he said business—like it was a private joke between the three of them.
Nandini tilted her head, her gold earrings catching the light. “What’s your degree in, Sejal?”
The question caught her off guard. “E-Economics.”
“Ah.” Nandini’s lips curled. “So you’re good with numbers. And yet here you are.” She gestured lazily to the lounge around them. “Serving drinks to men who’ve never had to calculate how much their dinner costs.”
The words hit like a slap, but Sejal refused to flinch.
Rajan leaned forward, his cufflinks glinting. “We could change that.” His voice dropped, intimate. “A girl like you shouldn’t be worrying about overdraft fees.”
Sejal’s breath hitched. How the hell—?
Nandini’s laugh was low, melodic. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. That little frown you made when you checked your phone outside? That’s the look of someone who’s
tired of losing.” She reached into her clutch and slid a black card across the table. “We’re in the business of solving problems, Sejal. And you?” Her manicured nail tapped the card once. “You’re a problem we’d very much like to solve.”
Rajan’s gaze burned hotter now, tracing the flush creeping up Sejal’s neck. “Think about it,” he murmured. “A single night could erase every one of those loans.”
Nandini’s eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. “And if you’re as clever as I think you are… it might just be the beginning.”
Sejal’s fingers trembled as she tucked the card into her apron.
The Malhotras watched her walk away—Rajan with hunger, Nandini with the satisfaction of a collector who’d just found a rare, precious thing.
Three years of a master’s degree in economics, and here she was—still trapped in the same cycle of rent, loan payments, and the soul-crushing grind of serving overpriced cocktails to people who’d never understand her desperation. She exhaled sharply, tucking her phone away before the sight of that number could suffocate her completely.
The neon sign of Velvet buzzed to life as she approached, its deep crimson glow staining the sidewalk like spilled wine. Inside, the lounge hummed with low conversations and the clink of ice against glass. The air smelled of bourbon, expensive perfume, and the quiet hunger of New York’s elite.
Sejal adjusted the cuffs of her fitted white satin shirt—sleek, slightly sheer, tucked into a black mini skirt that hugged every curve. The thigh-high stockings she wore made her legs look endless, the kind of detail that earned her better tips but also lingering stares. She hated how much she’d learned to weaponize her own body.
“Cutting it close, princesa,” Mateo muttered as she tied her apron. The bartender’s eyes flicked over her outfit, but he knew better than to comment.
“Traffic,” she lied smoothly, rolling her shoulders back.
Then they walked in.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair swept back in a way that screamed old money. His suit was immaculate—midnight blue, tailored to perfection. But it was the woman beside him who made Sejal pause.
She was younger than him—mid-forties, maybe—with honey-blonde hair cascading in loose waves over one shoulder. Her dress was understated but expensive, the kind that clung just enough to suggest wealth without effort.
They took a booth in Sejal’s section, the man’s hand resting possessively on the small of his wife’s back.
Sejal approached, forcing her customer-service smile into place. “Welcome to Velvet. Can I start you with something to drink?”
The man’s gaze dragged over her—slow, assessing. Not leering, but noticing. His wife’s eyes flicked up, sharp and amused, as if she’d caught him.
“A Manhattan for me,” the man said, his voice smooth, faintly accented—Indian, but softened by years abroad. “And a gin martini for my wife. Extra dry.”
The woman smirked, her fingers tapping the table. “And make sure it’s cold.”
Sejal nodded, but as she turned, she felt their eyes still on her. The weight of it prickled down her spine.
Rich couples. She knew the type. Knew the games they played.
Sejal returned with their drinks, her hips swaying just slightly—unintentional, a habit born from balancing trays in crowded spaces. But Rajan Malhotra noticed.
His dark eyes tracked her like a predator studying its next meal. The white satin of her shirt clung to the dip of her waist, the fabric sheer enough to hint at the soft curve of her breasts when she leaned forward to set down his Manhattan. The black mini skirt hugged her like a second skin, riding up just a fraction as she bent—enough to reveal the taut line where her thigh-high stockings met bare skin.
Youth. That’s what he was drinking in, more than the liquor. The way her collarbones peeked from beneath her shirt, the defiant set of her jaw even as she played the part of the obedient waitress. She was all sharp edges and hidden fire, and Rajan wanted to see how far that fire could burn.
His fingers twitched around his glass, imagining the weight of her hip under his palm.
Across the table, Nandini watched—not her husband’s wandering gaze, but Sejal herself. Her assessment was colder, more calculated. The girl had the kind of beauty that wasn’t just pretty; it was useful. High cheekbones, full lips that could pout or part in surprise, eyes that held a flicker of intelligence behind the practiced demureness.
Nandini’s gaze dropped to Sejal’s hands—slender fingers, nails painted a muted rose. No rings. No signs of a life that could interfere. Good.
“You’re Indian,” Nandini stated, her voice smooth as the gin in her glass. Not a question. An observation.
Sejal stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”
“But not from here.” Nandini’s smile was a razor wrapped in silk. “I can always tell. The way you carry yourself. Like you’re still deciding whether this city owns you or if you’ll ever really belong to it.”
Rajan chuckled, swirling his drink. “My wife has a habit of reading people. It’s why our business thrives.”
Sejal’s pulse jumped at the way he said business—like it was a private joke between the three of them.
Nandini tilted her head, her gold earrings catching the light. “What’s your degree in, Sejal?”
The question caught her off guard. “E-Economics.”
“Ah.” Nandini’s lips curled. “So you’re good with numbers. And yet here you are.” She gestured lazily to the lounge around them. “Serving drinks to men who’ve never had to calculate how much their dinner costs.”
The words hit like a slap, but Sejal refused to flinch.
Rajan leaned forward, his cufflinks glinting. “We could change that.” His voice dropped, intimate. “A girl like you shouldn’t be worrying about overdraft fees.”
Sejal’s breath hitched. How the hell—?
Nandini’s laugh was low, melodic. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. That little frown you made when you checked your phone outside? That’s the look of someone who’s
tired of losing.” She reached into her clutch and slid a black card across the table. “We’re in the business of solving problems, Sejal. And you?” Her manicured nail tapped the card once. “You’re a problem we’d very much like to solve.”
Rajan’s gaze burned hotter now, tracing the flush creeping up Sejal’s neck. “Think about it,” he murmured. “A single night could erase every one of those loans.”
Nandini’s eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. “And if you’re as clever as I think you are… it might just be the beginning.”
Sejal’s fingers trembled as she tucked the card into her apron.
The Malhotras watched her walk away—Rajan with hunger, Nandini with the satisfaction of a collector who’d just found a rare, precious thing.
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