Chapter 2: Shattered Trust and Flooded Memories

I dashed through the lashing rain, dodging puddles as big as autos, my Bata chappals squelching with every frantic step. My white lab coat from the institute clung to me, soaked and freezing. The cold seeped into my bones, but nothing compared to the raw ache Kabir’s words left behind. Each word echoed in my head, stabbing at me sharper than any monsoon wind.

Inside the bar’s private room, laughter exploded, spilling out into the corridor like a bad dream you can’t shake off.

“Arey, if she finds out, she’ll go full drama queen! I’m telling you, Kabir, this is like those serials my mom watches—total naatak!” someone cackled.

“Three years together and he can toss a hundred crore? Bollywood mein bhi aisa nahi hota!”

“So, Kabir, planning to dump her, then?”

Kabir lounged like a bored king, waving off the waiter for another bottle. “Dump her? Abhi toh mazaa bhi nahi aaya, bhai.”

He pinched his chin, the scar by his eye catching the yellow light. After a moment, he flashed that cocky grin that made girls giggle and guys jealous. “What do you say, should I pretend to break up, just to scare her? Salary toh sirf thirty thousand hai—can’t keep holding her back, right?”

“Kabir, sambhal ke yaar. What if she actually leaves?” one asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

“Tu nahi samjhega, yaar. Bro’s broken up with her so many times, and every time Ananya comes crawling back, like some old-school heroine. She can’t go anywhere.”

Those words splashed over me like dirty floodwater on old wounds. Kabir raised his glass, lazy and arrogant, toasting the group. The others followed, eager to keep him happy.

From the corner, a boy clicked his tongue. “So sad, man. Like a stray kutta—just letting people use her for nothing…”

Outside, my feet felt glued to the spot. I couldn’t bear any more. My heart hammered as I stumbled away, the corridor spinning. I dug into my pocket, fingers burning around the velvet ring box. For a second, I almost threw it away, disgust boiling in my veins.

Behind me, the laughter faded into an uneasy silence—the kind that falls when a joke crosses the line.

Kabir spun his glass, face blank, fixing a stare on the boy who’d spoken. The room tensed up, everyone exchanging nervous glances. Nobody wanted to upset the Sharmas—old money, politics, business, even a retired general in the family. Kabir was Dadaji’s favourite; nobody dared be the first to offend him.

“Kabir bhaiya, I drank too much. I shouldn’t have said anything about Bhabhi,” the boy stammered, slapping himself in panic, fearing for his future.

The others jumped in, desperate to lighten the mood. “Arrey, idiot! Do you even know who Bhabhi is? Researcher at Mumbai Central University, yaar! She’s got more brains than all of us. Who are you to judge?”

The boy’s cheeks reddened, but Kabir finally let out a sigh. “Bas, enough.”

“You’re from the Verma family, right? The pharma people?”

Amit Verma nodded so quickly his neck nearly snapped.

Kabir leaned forward, cheek in hand, glass lazily raised. “Central’s latest research…”

“Bhaiya, samajh gaya! Thank you for letting me apologise to Bhabhi,” Amit blurted, bowing his head, voice trembling. The group exhaled, someone cracked a joke about Amit’s future, and nervous laughter fluttered around—everyone pretending things were normal, but the tension hung thick.