Chapter 8: Anklets, Moonlight, and the Next Round

These families are like the Ambanis and the Birlas—one wrong move, and you’re finished. I’m not stupid enough to fight battles I can’t win.

No connections, no big surname, not even a godfather in Bollywood. Better to take what I can and leave while I’m ahead.

My father always said, "Beta, paisa mil raha hai toh haath mat hata." Who am I to refuse?

Now the system is almost shouting, like a frustrated cricket fan. "You’re giving up the heroine! Are you mad?"

I look her in the eye, softer now, and give a small wave. "No hard feelings, madam. You take care, okay?"

The city is alive—Bollywood songs blaring from auto rickshaws, the distant thump of bass from a sangeet party nearby. I walk home, feet light, pockets heavier than ever before.

I freeze. On the sofa, someone waits. The moonlight outlines her form, sharp and elegant. My heart skips, unsure what’s next. Her anklet chimed softly as she uncrossed her legs, sending a shiver down my spine.

Before I can react, my mouth goes dry. Until a cold and lazy female voice sounds in the living room: "Come here. Kneel."

Her voice is silk over steel—lazy, dangerous, and commanding. I swallow, pulse racing, as the next chapter in this tamasha begins.

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