Chapter 8: Neha's World

I reached Neha’s flat just after midnight.

The building smelled of nalli nihari from the roadside stall, the corridor sticky with Mumbai’s heat. Her place was tiny—maybe 150 square feet. Kitchen by the bed, bathroom at the foot. It was humbling, seeing how she lived: a steel tumbler on the table, the faint scent of agarbatti, clothes soaking in a bucket by the door. For the first time, I saw Neha’s boldness as a kind of armour against the world.

Neha squatted, helping me unbuckle my belt. She looked up, eyebrow raised. “Rohan Sir, is it weird for you here? You’ve never stayed in a place like this, na?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. When I just graduated, Priya and I also lived—” I stopped, realising my mistake.

Neha grinned. “Your uncle’s such a big boss. You really struggled?”

I lied, “I didn’t want to rely on family, so I tried on my own for a while.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. When Priya’s uncle offered to help, I’d been stubborn, wanting to prove myself. We’d lived in a place almost as cramped as this before I gave in and took his help.

Neha didn’t press further, busy with other things. That night, we did it three times.

Afterwards, I promised her: I’d rent a bigger flat for her, give fifty thousand a month, buy her bags and makeup. My plan was clear—if I couldn’t divorce, at least I could keep her as my mistress.

But Neha’s rationality surprised me. After I made my offer, I saw her glance at a family photo on her wall, her fingers hovering over her phone before she blocked the rishta guy’s number. Her eyes flickered with something I couldn’t name—hope, maybe, or doubt—before she looked back at me, mask firmly in place.

She asked, “You really will leave your family for me?”

I was ready. “Of course. But not now. She’s due in less than three months. If I divorce now, I lose everything. You wouldn’t want that, right?”

Neha’s shoulders relaxed. My excuse was airtight.

She asked, “After she gives birth, will you really divorce her?”

I pinched her nose and teased, “That depends on you. If you keep going on rishtas, I won’t divorce.”

Neha flushed, pinched me back. “You’re too much.”

For the first time, I felt I’d won. The sense of conquest was intoxicating. I believed I could manage the risk—delay, distract, and eventually, she’d accept her place as my mistress. As they say, in Mumbai, you only get one real chance—no one throws it away if they can help it.