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Characters
Sanjana Tiwari, 33 (Main Protagonist)
Angad Bahri, 20 (Main Protagonist)
Rajiv Bahri, 55
Kavita Bahri, 51
Chapter 1- The Journey
Sanjana stood before the mirror, adjusting the delicate pleats of her vibrant mustard yellow saree. The soft rustle of silk against her skin accompanied the glow of dim lighting as Sanjana Tiwari folded the final pleats of her saree. She adjusted the drape over her shoulder, securing it with a delicate brooch, then stepped back to appraise her handiwork. She looked impeccable—and that was no accident. She had chosen this saree deliberately, a striking color that would draw attention without saying a word. She secured the pleats at her waist with precision, her slender fingers working deftly, ensuring each fold was perfect. Her blouse, an elegant backless design in matching gold, added a touch of allure. Sanjana’s eyes, lined with kohl, held a certain confidence as she leaned in to apply a final coat of deep crimson lipstick. She accessorized with minimal yet striking jewelry—a pair of tiny earrings and a single gold bracelet that chimed softly as she moved.
Tonight was Rajiv Bahri’s anniversary, a celebration of her boss’s twenty-two years of matrimony she was determined to navigate with precision. The scent of jasmine mingled with her perfume, a floral note that softened the sharp edges of her otherwise calculated demeanor. Her crimson lips curved into a faint smile as she slipped on her earrings, gold and dangling just enough to catch the eye but not invite suspicion.
Sanjana hadn’t always commanded such presence. Years ago, she had been just another name whispered in the narrow streets of her conservative hometown. Teachers praised her determination, classmates envied her intellect, and her parents wore her achievements like medals. Her parents’ pride, however, had quickly turned into silent disappointment when her marriage ended. Divorce, even in whispers, was a word that clung like a stain in the close-knit confines of her community. They had arranged the match with good intentions: her husband, Pranav, had been a kind man, educated, and modestly employed. But kindness, Sanjana had realized, could not replace ambition, nor could love grow in the shadow of obligation.
Pranav’s illness was a quiet thief, stealing his ability to work, to plan, to dream. At first, she had stayed out of duty, as was expected. But as the months dragged into years, and as her own aspirations began to feel like sand slipping through her fingers, she knew she couldn’t stay. Some pitied her, calling her pragmatic for leaving a marriage that seemed destined for burden. Others, harsher in their judgment, labeled her as selfish, a woman who discarded a husband the moment life grew difficult.
She moved to the city shortly after, renting a small but comfortable apartment on the outskirts. Now, at 33, she was thriving. As the junior assistant to Rajiv Bahri, manager of one of the city’s busiest bank branches, Sanjana had carved a reputation as meticulous and unyielding. Colleagues respected her efficiency but resented her ambition. Rajiv himself admired her, often calling her “The backbone of the branch” in meetings, though she suspected his compliments were as strategic as his career moves.
Sanjana’s ambitions didn’t end at being an assistant. She dreamed of more—more money, more recognition, more control. The faint smell of freshly printed banknotes and the rustling of paperwork in the office weren’t just mundane details; they were reminders of what she could achieve. In her mind, there was no room for sentimentality or complacency.
And yet, her life outside work was a solitary one. At night, in her neatly arranged apartment, she often poured herself a glass of wine and scrolled through old photos—faded memories of a life she’d left behind. She told herself she didn’t regret her choices. Regret, after all, was for people who believed in second chances. For Sanjana, there was only the future, and it was hers to claim.
It had taken her months to learn the undercurrents of her workplace—how the senior staff revealed in their own complacency, how whispers of politics and promotions danced in hushed tones, and how Rajiv Bahri, the branch manager, carried himself like a monarch overseeing his kingdom. Her ambitions were simple, almost mathematical: a promotion within the next two years, a transfer to a larger branch, and eventually, a managerial role of her own. These goals ticked in her mind like a metronome, steady and relentless. She had no time for the trivialities of office camaraderie or the wistful dreams of her peers. Sanjana’s world was one of precision and purpose, a world where sentimentality was a liability.
Sanjana understood the rules of survival in the professional world better than most. The office wasn’t a meritocracy; it was a carefully orchestrated dance where perception often mattered more than performance. And if that dance required a few well-placed steps with Rajiv, she would execute them without hesitation.
Rajiv was the kind of boss who enjoyed playing the benevolent patriarch. At fifty-five, with his neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair and penchant for designer watches, he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who believed he was indispensable. Employees spoke of his career with muted envy—how he had climbed the ladder over decades, maneuvering through bureaucratic labyrinths to command a position of power.
From the moment Sanjana joined the branch three years ago, she had sensed his interest in her. It wasn’t the sort of predatory attention she’d heard about in whispered warnings from other women; it was subtler, tinged with curiosity and respect. Rajiv seemed to admire her ambition, her efficiency, and the polished veneer she presented to the world.
Sanjana, in turn, saw Rajiv for what he was—a man who enjoyed his authority and, perhaps, the thrill of proximity to younger, smarter women. She didn’t encourage him, but she didn’t push him away either. She knew how to navigate his compliments with just the right mix of professionalism and deference. A quick nod here, a polite “Thank you, sir” there, and she maintained the delicate balance of appearing approachable without inviting undue attention. But the office was a hive of speculation, and the whispers began long before she noticed them.
“She’s too close to Rajiv Sir,” one colleague murmured near the water cooler.
“They’re always in his cabin together. Closed-door meetings, no less,” another added, her voice dripping with insinuation.
“She’s smart, no doubt,” a third chimed in. “Knows which side of the bread is buttered.”
Sanjana wasn’t oblivious to the rumors. She had caught the sidelong glances during team lunches and the forced smiles from colleagues who pretended to respect her. If the whispers bothered her, she didn’t show it. She knew the truth, and the truth was simple: Rajiv Bahri was a stepping stone, nothing more. It was true that she spent more time with Rajiv than most of her colleagues. As his junior assistant, she was responsible for ensuring his schedule ran smoothly, preparing reports, and sometimes staying back late to finish tasks that others wouldn’t bother with. But Sanjana had no illusions about her relationship with him. She wasn’t interested in his approval for its own sake—she was interested in the doors it could open.
And Rajiv, to his credit, was useful. He had once pulled her aside after a particularly heated staff meeting and offered her advice.
“You have potential, Sanjana,” he’d said, leaning back in his chair with an air of magnanimity. “But ambition alone isn’t enough. You need allies, people who’ll vouch for you when the time comes.”
She had smiled politely, tucking away the remark like a piece of ammunition. Rajiv’s advice wasn’t entirely selfless; it was his way of reminding her that he could be one of those allies if she played her cards right. Still, Sanjana knew better than to overplay her hand. She kept their interactions professional in public and never lingered in his cabin longer than necessary. The gossip, she realized, was inevitable—people always resented competence in a woman, especially when it came wrapped in ambition. Yet, beneath her composed exterior, there were moments when the gossip gnawed at her. It wasn’t the falsehood of the rumors that stung, but the way they reduced her achievements to a caricature. She had worked tirelessly for every success, but in the eyes of her colleagues, she was just another woman trading favors for power. There were times she wondered if Rajiv was aware of the rumors. If he was, he never mentioned them. His demeanor toward her remained unchanged—friendly but formal, occasionally tinged with the faint paternalism that older men often bestowed on younger women in the workplace.
One afternoon, as she entered his cabin to discuss a pending audit report, he looked up from his desk and said, “You know, Sanjana, people will always talk. It’s in their nature.”
She froze for a fraction of a second before composing herself. “I don’t pay attention to gossip, sir,” she replied, her tone neutral.
“Good,” he said, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Because the ones who gossip rarely matter. Focus on what you’re here to achieve.”
For a moment, she almost believed he was on her side. But Sanjana knew better. Rajiv’s words, like everything else about him, were calculated. He thrived on being needed, on feeling indispensable to those around him. And as long as Sanjana’s success reflected well on him, he would continue to be her ally. But alliances in the corporate world were fleeting, and Sanjana had no intention of becoming complacent. Rajiv was a valuable asset, but he was also a liability. She couldn’t afford to let his shadow define her. As she left his cabin, the whispers followed her, like a chorus sung softly but persistently. She walked past her colleagues with her head held high, her heels clicking against the tiled floor, her eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.
Chapter 2 - The Anniversary Night
The taxi rolled to a smooth stop outside the grand Bahri residence, its headlights slicing through the evening mist. Sanjana Tiwari stepped out with practiced elegance, her vibrant yellow saree catching the glow of the streetlights. She adjusted the drape over her shoulder, the golden embroidery shimmering like a quiet statement of intent. In one hand, she clutched a small, tasteful handbag; the other instinctively smoothed the pleats at her waist as she surveyed the house. The sound of distant laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the open windows. She tipped the driver, her bangles chiming softly as she handed him the fare. “Keep the change,” she said, her voice measured, almost detached, before turning toward the brightly lit entrance.For a moment, she hesitated, the imposing facade of the Bahri home standing like a monument to everything she had worked toward—and everything she still lacked. The air carried the faint scent of roses from the meticulously kept garden, mingling with the more ephemeral aroma of status and wealth. Sanjana squared her shoulders and strode toward the door, her heels clicking against the polished stone driveway.
Inside, the energy was palpable. The house was alive with the hum of preparation for Rajiv and his wife’s anniversary dinner party. The warm golden light from the chandelier bathed the room, illuminating clusters of elegantly dressed guests. Waiters moved deftly between them, trays of sparkling champagne in their hands. The sound of conversation swirled around her as she entered, the chatter momentarily dulling to a hum as heads turned her way.
Sanjana caught Rajiv Bahri’s eye almost instantly. From his position near the bar, he held his glass of whiskey with the ease of a man used to being in control. His gaze lingered just a second too long, enough for her to notice. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she greeted a passing colleague, masking the sharp calculation beneath her poised exterior.
Sanjana approached him with a subtle smile, her tone light but charged with an undertone only he could decipher. "Congratulations, Sir. Twenty two years... quite the milestone." Her words carried a mix of warmth and something far more complex.
His reply was equally polished, but the undertone was unmistakable. “Ah, Sanjana. You’ve outdone yourself yet again.”
The evening was young, but the games had already begun. The party carried on around them, but for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had faded, leaving only the two of them in their intricate dance of unspoken tension.
Sanjana Tiwari stood by the grand window that overlooked the garden, a delicate glass of wine in her hand. Rajiv Bahri, ever the charming host, had ensured she was introduced to everyone with an air of familiarity that bordered on favoritism. “This is Sanjana,” he’d say, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder, “a rising star at our branch.” His tone was genial, almost paternal, but it was enough to stoke the embers of suspicion among the guests.
Kavita Bahri, the hostess in name but not in presence, remained confined to her bedroom. Her illness had dulled her once-vibrant demeanor, leaving her a shadow of the woman she had been. Occasionally, one of the guests would inquire after her, their voices tinged with pity, and Rajiv would respond with a practiced smile and assurances that she was resting comfortably.
But it wasn’t the guests’ scrutiny that unnerved Sanjana the most. It was Angad. From the moment she arrived, she felt his gaze—a steady, burning weight that followed her across the room. Rajiv’s youngest, Angad was an enigma. At twenty, he carried himself with a confidence that seemed to come more from defiance than maturity. His casual attire—a leather jacket thrown over a plain black shirt—stood out amidst the formal crowd, and his presence was magnetic, though it bristled with unspoken tension. Sanjana met his gaze once, a fleeting moment that felt like a silent accusation. He didn’t smile. Instead, his dark eyes conveyed a mixture of distrust and disdain, as if he were daring her to justify her presence.
The Bahri family had always been good at appearances, but cracks in the foundation had a way of revealing themselves at the most inopportune moments. To outsiders, Rajiv Bahri was the portrait of a successful man—a bank manager with a reputation for professionalism and a family that seemed well-settled. But Angad Bahri knew better.
Sitting in his room, the faint chatter of guests filtering in from downstairs, Angad leaned against his desk, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He hadn’t wanted to attend the anniversary party at all. To him, the event was a hollow spectacle, a desperate attempt by his father to maintain an image of normalcy. His mother, Kavita, was too ill to even step out of her room, let alone play hostess. The idea of celebrating their marriage—one that had long since devolved into a silent, transactional partnership—felt like a cruel joke.
Angad couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his resentment toward his father had taken root. Maybe it had been during his teenage years, when his father’s long hours at the bank left him absent from school plays, soccer matches, and family dinners. Or perhaps it was the way Rajiv dismissed Angad’s dreams of pursuing music, insisting that it was a “hobby” unworthy of serious attention.
“Real success,” Rajiv had said more than once, “comes from hard work, discipline, and practicality. None of this artistic nonsense.”
By the time Angad turned eighteen, their relationship had fractured into something perfunctory. They spoke only when necessary, their conversations laced with unspoken judgment on one side and simmering defiance on the other.
But his deepest anger stemmed from his mother’s condition. Kavita’s illness had crept in slowly over the years, a vague exhaustion that turned into something more insidious. Angad blamed his father for her deterioration—not directly, but for the way Rajiv had poured himself into his career while neglecting the emotional fabric of their family. His father provided money, yes, but love, attention, and presence? Those were luxuries Rajiv seemed unwilling to afford.
It was against this backdrop of strained relationships that Sanjana Tiwari entered the picture. Angad first noticed her a year ago, during one of his rare visits to the bank. He had gone to deliver some documents on his mother’s behalf and caught sight of her through the glass doors of his father’s cabin. She was poised, polished, and far younger than most of the staff. The way his father spoke to her—leaning forward slightly, his tone unusually warm—pricked at Angad’s instincts.
“She’s just an employee,” he’d told himself at the time, shaking off the unease. But over the months, as he overheard his father mentioning Sanjana’s name more frequently at home, the unease grew.
Rajiv talked about her like she was indispensable. “Sanjana handled that report brilliantly,” he’d say, or, “If only more of the staff had her work ethic.” For a man who rarely praised anyone, his enthusiasm for her was glaringly out of character.
When Rajiv invited her to the anniversary party, Angad’s suspicions hardened into something more visceral. It wasn’t just inappropriate; it was insulting. His mother, bedridden upstairs, deserved his father’s undivided attention, and yet Rajiv had chosen to showcase this junior assistant to their family friends like she was some prized possession. From the moment Sanjana walked into the house that evening, Angad couldn’t take his eyes off her—not out of admiration, but out of a need to decode her. She was polite, even gracious, greeting everyone with the kind of poise that came from years of practice. But to Angad, her presence felt calculated. She wasn’t here to celebrate his parents’ anniversary; she was here to secure her place in his father’s favor.
He stayed in the background for most of the evening, nursing a drink in the corner while keeping a quiet watch. He noted how his father hovered around her, making introductions and drawing her into conversations. The other guests seemed charmed by her, but Angad saw something different—a subtle awareness in her eyes, a readiness to adapt to whatever the situation required. His mother’s absence only amplified his frustration. Kavita had wanted to come downstairs, but the effort had been too much for her. Angad had sat with her briefly before the party started, holding her hand as she smiled weakly. “Your father means well,” she had murmured, always the peacemaker, though even she seemed unconvinced.
“Does he?” Angad had replied softly, his tone laced with bitterness.
When the evening wound down and the last of the guests began to leave, Rajiv approached her. “Sanjana,” he said warmly, “it’s late. Angad will drive you home.”
She hesitated, glancing at Angad, who stood a few feet away, his jaw tightening at his father’s words. It was clear he hadn’t been consulted.
“That’s not necessary, sir,” Sanjana said, forcing a polite smile. “I can call for a cab.”
“Nonsense,” Rajiv replied, waving away her protest. “It’s dark out, and the streets aren’t safe this late. Angad doesn’t mind.”
Angad’s silence suggested otherwise, but he nodded curtly, his expression unreadable.
