Chapter 6: Divorce, Confessions, and WhatsApp Deals

The last time I was this speechless was… the last time.

Old habits die hard. I remember the early days—how her smallest frown could ruin my day. Still, it never mattered to her.

The system’s voice is almost comical now—like my cousin shouting "Go for it!" at a cricket match.

[Go, grab her hand! Tell her not to be so cruel to you!]

[Hurry up and kick the male lead out! She’s your wife, your woman!]

I try to touch her hand, just a little—like couples in old Bollywood films. But she pulls away so fast, you’d think I had leprosy.

I hold out the divorce papers, pen ready. My voice is calm, almost bored. "Chalo, if you want to break my heart, at least do it properly—sign here, please."

The system sounds genuinely offended now, as if I’ve ruined its big plan.

She studies the pages, every muscle in her jaw tight. Her eyes dart to mine, cold and questioning. The office staff holds its breath.

He’s back, all attitude. His eyes rake over me, calculating, measuring—like a Marwari jeweller appraising fake gold.

She tucks the file away with a practiced flick. For a moment, she almost looks vulnerable, smoothing her saree pallu unconsciously.

His words are like arrows, sharp and relentless. He paces, never taking his eyes off me.

He’s showing off, acting like a hero in a TV drama. If this was a daily soap, the background music would be thundering by now.

In the book, his revenge is filmy—proper underworld style. Hired goons, cricket bats, hospital bills longer than train tickets from Mumbai to Chennai. I shudder just remembering.

Bruises everywhere, bandages, no visitors. In real life, even the compounder would pity me.

My hand lands on his shoulder—awkward but firm. "Bhai, ek minute? Chalo, baat karte hain, akele mein."

But this time, I wasn’t going to beg. Not for her, not for anyone.