Part 1: The Monsoon Night and the Man From the Past
Jaipur welcomed me with a long, steady monsoon rain—thick, humid drops falling as if they wanted to wash away all the weariness I had carried from Mumbai. The three-day business trip was, in truth, an escape. An escape from the empty apartment whose silent walls still clung to the loneliness left behind after my divorce three years ago.
Three years. Long enough for a wound to close… yet never long enough for the dull ache to truly disappear.
My name is Anika—thirty-four years old, successful, independent. But deep inside, my heart was still full of unhealed scars.
It was eleven at night.
I sat alone at the hotel bar, swirling a half-melted Margarita. Soft Jazz blended with the sound of monsoon rain tapping against the glass, creating a mournful symphony.
“Anika? Is that you?”
A warm, deep voice—so familiar it sent chills down my spine—rose behind me. I didn’t turn immediately. I was afraid it was an illusion. That voice used to be my whole world… and it had also spat the cruelest words at me on the day we stood in court.
Slowly, I turned my chair.
The world seemed to stop.
Arjun.
My ex-husband.
He stood there in a navy tailored suit, holding a glass of red wine. He looked even more handsome than before—distinguished, with a hint of silver at his temples and a quiet intensity in his eyes.
“Arjun… what are you doing here?” I stammered.
Arjun smiled—the same half-smile that once melted me. He took the seat beside me. The scent of sandalwood cologne floated toward me—still the same fragrance.
“I’m here to meet a client,” he said. “What a coincidence. Three years… and you’ve grown even more stunning.”
A casual compliment, yet my heart skipped.
We talked—first polite questions about work and health, then slowly drifting into memories as the alcohol loosened boundaries.
Arjun told me he had moved to Delhi and that his real-estate investments were thriving. He spoke of billion-rupee projects, European trips, and the freedom of a successful single man.
“And you? Anyone new?”
Arjun’s eyes locked onto mine—burning.
I laughed bitterly.
“No. I’m busy… and once bitten, twice shy.”
He sighed, lifting his hand to lightly touch mine. A shock ran through me.
“I’m sorry, Anika. Back then… I was young and stupid. Too ambitious. I abandoned you. For three years, not a single day passed without regret.”
I froze.
Arjun—the man who never apologized—was now admitting fault?
The wine, the music, the loneliness in a strange city… all of it blurred my judgment. I let myself believe in what I wanted to believe: that he still loved me, that fate had brought us together for a second chance.
The second bottle of wine arrived.
He told me about sleepless nights, missing my cooking, missing the way I read by the window. His words stitched together the pieces of a shattered past.
At 1 a.m., the bar emptied.
Arjun leaned close to my ear, his breath warm on my neck.
“It’s loud here. Do you… want to come to my room? We can talk more. I brought a very good bottle of Italian wine.”
I knew exactly what it meant.
My mind told me to walk away.
But my heart—starved for affection—won.
“Okay.”
And I wagered what little pride I had left.
Part 2: A Night of Illusions
Arjun’s suite was on the top floor, overlooking the faint glow of Jaipur’s old city.
The moment the door closed, he kissed me—hungry, desperate, as if making up for three lost years. I responded with everything I had buried inside me.
In the golden glow of the bedside lamp, we wrapped around each other.
Every barrier, every old resentment dissolved.
Arjun whispered my name, whispered love, whispered longing.
“Anika… I missed you… don’t leave me again…”
Those words shattered the last walls around my heart. I held him tightly, tears slipping onto the pillow. I imagined our reconciliation, a mature second chance.
After the passion faded, Arjun fell asleep quickly, drunk.
I lay beside him, watching the familiar features I once knew so well. I brushed his hair gently. Maybe fate really had given me one more chance.
Outside, the rain slowed to a soft drizzle.
The clock showed 3 a.m.
Suddenly, Arjun stirred. He frowned, mumbling.
I smiled, leaning closer to kiss his forehead.
And then—
The words from his mouth grew clearer.
“Hello… Hello…” he slurred, reaching out as if holding a phone.
I assumed he was dreaming about work.
“Don’t worry…”
His voice thick, broken.
“She… she took the bait… that idiot…”
My smile froze.
“Took the bait”?
“Idiot”?
Who was he talking about?
He continued, a twisted grin pulling at his lips.
“Contract… tomorrow… after she signs, I get the money… her house… that house is perfect…”
Then he chuckled—an ugly, cunning laugh:
“Three years… still stupid… thought I wanted her back? Dream on…”
My blood turned to ice.
Every word sliced into my chest.
“Took the bait…”
“Her house…”
“Thought I loved her…”
I bolted upright, covering my mouth to stifle the scream rising in my throat.
This wasn’t fate.
This wasn’t love.
This was a trap.
My mind raced. Earlier at the bar, he’d asked a lot about my job, my home, my finances. And just a week ago, I had posted online about selling my villa in Mumbai—worth a fortune.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Part 3: The Naked Truth
To confirm my worst fears, I picked up Arjun’s phone on the nightstand.
Locked.
But I remembered—he always used his mother’s birth year.
1-9-6-2.
“Click.”
Unlocked.
I opened messages.
WhatsApp.
The most recent chat was at 10 p.m.—right before he met me at the bar.
From someone named “Bhai Raghav.”
Raghav:
“You’re sure your ex-wife is at that hotel? My boys checked—she’s in room 1205.”
Arjun:
“Yeah, bro. I see her at the bar now. Still looks good. Just give me one more week. Tonight I’ll reel her in. Tomorrow I’ll sweet-talk her into lending money. She’s emotional. A little acting and she’ll buy everything.”
Raghav:
“You better get that 20 lakh by tomorrow or I’ll break your hands.”
Arjun:
“Relax, bro. She’s selling her villa. Tons of cash. I’ll make her sign a loan contract or transfer the money. She still thinks I’m some big real-estate tycoon hahaha.”
The phone slipped from my hand.
Not loud enough to wake him—only loud enough to shatter my soul.
I stared at Arjun.
This worthless gambler.
This parasite.
This man planning to use me to pay his debt—to a criminal.
I felt disgusted.
With him.
With myself.
Everything that happened hours earlier now felt rotten, filthy.
I ran to the bathroom, scrubbing my skin until it burned.
When I finally dressed and stood in front of the mirror, the woman staring back had cold, sharp eyes.
No softness left.
I walked out.
Arjun was still asleep—smiling in his dream.
I took all the cash I had—around 10,000 rupees—and tossed it onto him.
The bills scattered across his chest and face.
I picked up my lipstick and wrote across the giant mirror:
“MY MONEY IS FOR DIGNITY — NOT TO BUY A CHEAP GIGOLO LIKE YOU. WAKE UP, ARJUN.”
I screenshotted his messages and sent them to myself.
Then deleted them from his phone.
Let him wake up blind.
Let him face his loan shark alone.
Part 4: A Sunrise Without You
At 4 a.m., I dragged my suitcase out of the suite and out of the hotel.
The rain had stopped. Jaipur’s air was crisp, chilling my cheeks—keeping me awake.
I took a taxi straight to the airport and changed my ticket to the earliest flight back to Mumbai.
On the plane, looking down at Jaipur fading under morning mist, I didn’t cry.
My last tears had been washed down the hotel drain.
I blocked Arjun’s number, deleted everything.
When he woke up, he would see the cash thrown on him, the words on the mirror, and he would know:
The “stupid prey” had escaped.
And then he would face Raghav alone, with no lifeline left.
That was his price.
As for me—last night was a mistake, but a necessary one.
Like a vaccine—painful, but granting immunity.
The plane broke through grey clouds, entering a sky filled with blazing sunrise.
I closed my eyes and slept, deeply.
When I woke up, I would be Anika of the present—stronger, wiser, and never looking back again.
Goodbye, Arjun.
Goodbye, that cheap illusion.