Chapter 1: The Flood and the Betrayal

In the third year of squeezing into our cramped, rented 2BHK flat with Kabir, Mumbai’s monsoon clouds finally lost their patience. Within hours, water rushed in, and our little home turned into a swimming pool—old slippers and stubborn dreams bobbing on the surface, refusing to sink.

Outside, Linking Road was a total mess—traffic jammed, horns blasting, and rickshaw drivers yelling as if their gaalis could scare away the floodwaters. I huddled into Kabir’s shoulder, shivering—not just from the chill, but from that hopeless, bone-deep misery only a true Mumbaikar feels during monsoon. The mitti ki khushboo of wet earth mixed with the musty smell of our soaked sofa, making the air thick with nostalgia and sorrow together.

Kabir murmured that he was sorry, brushing away a dripping strand of hair from my forehead, his words almost lost in the rain’s roar. For a second, I thought he’d finally hold me close. Instead, he turned away, eyes glued to his phone, and without a second thought, donated a hundred crore to charity. The downpour outside was nothing compared to the one inside my chest.

A few hours later, at SoBo’s latest rooftop bar, a bunch of Mumbai’s rich kids lounged around, showing off their designer sneakers and crisp shirts, whisky glasses in hand.

“Arrey Kabir bhai, itni saari rich ladkiyaan line mein hain, phir bhi tu usi ko pakad ke baitha hai jo rent ke liye paisa ginti hai,” one of them teased, swirling his drink, voice full of mischief.

Kabir flashed his signature half-smirk, those fox-like eyes gleaming—he could charm a Gujarati aunty or outwit a banker. His laugh was low and sharp, like a blade skimming glass. The others leaned in, half-teasing, half-jealous.

“My girl can handle three jobs just to save up for a ring. Tere spoiled brats se toh kuch nahi hoga,” Kabir shot back, eyebrow raised with that easy swagger, arrogance worn like his favourite Titan watch.

Another piped up, lips twisted in mock worry, “But bro, what if she actually proposes? She’s about to get engaged to those Agarwal types, na? Then your timepass is over!”

“Tu toh bas masti kar raha hai—will you ever actually take her home as your wife?” a third pressed, hungry for masala.

Kabir’s face hardened, the playfulness vanishing. “Besides, Ananya will never know. Not in this lifetime.”

He didn’t know I was standing just outside the bar door, rain-soaked and trembling, clutching the ring box so tight my knuckles went pale. Tears blurred with the rain as I remembered the first time he made chai for me, the way he’d laugh when I danced around puddles. Now, that memory stung like salt in an open wound.

I pressed the ring box into my palm, as if pain could drown out humiliation.