Chapter 5: Truths That Cut Deeper Than Glass

Arjun’s eyes were so cold, I thought they might burn me.

My words must have dug up old wounds—how he’d once given up everything for me, only for me to betray him for money.

My stomach twisted in pain. I tried to leave, but suddenly I was lifted off my feet—Arjun had thrown me over his shoulder like some filmi hero, cigarette dangling from his lips.

The bouncer at the door just raised an eyebrow. No one dared stop Boss Arjun. Everyone stared. I thrashed and shouted at him to put me down.

He slapped my backside hard. I glared at him, hissing in Hindi, "Pagal ho gaye ho kya? I’ll scream, samjhe? Don’t touch me!"

He bundled me into the backseat, muttering curses in Marathi under his breath, the old driver pretending not to hear. He pinned down my legs, grabbed my chin, and growled, "Kabhi kabhi, I really want to kill you."

He looked at me like he hated me, but his eyes betrayed something else.

My stomach cramped so badly I couldn’t breathe. Sweat prickled my forehead. I glared at him, refusing to cry.

Arjun opened the glove compartment, took out a strip of Digene, and handed me a pink tablet with the same rough gentleness he used to have when we’d fight over the last piece of kaju katli.

Inside, I spotted my old lipstick, a broken hair tie, and the childish pink hair clip he’d once bought me—all my things, carefully kept, even after I’d left.

Tears stung my eyes. I turned my head and wiped them away before he could see.

After all these years, he still remembered my weak stomach, still kept my medicine close.

But I hardened my heart, shoved him away, and forced a smile: "Arjun, enough. Stop following me. You’re being a pest. Maybe you didn’t know—I’ve been married, I have a child now..."

"Still hoping to get back together? Don’t be pathetic, Arjun."

He stumbled back, stunned.

As I got out, he slammed me against the car, his grip tight on my neck, voice shaking: "Ananya, I don’t believe you. You better be joking, or—"

I stared him down. "I’ll prove it."

I took him to the children’s hospital. At 9 p.m., the corridor glowed with harsh lights and the tang of Dettol. Tired nurses floated by. I pointed through the glass at a little boy reading inside. "That’s my child."

Chotu—my dearest treasure.

He looked like me, but his gentle stubbornness was pure Arjun. He had his father’s determination, his kindness.

But he was so frail—barely six, small for his age, heartbreakingly obedient.

Arjun stared for a long time, then punched the wall, his knuckles white.

He hung his head. I think I saw a tear fall. I’d never seen him so broken.

The last thing he said that night: "Ananya, you’ve got guts."

He didn’t ask who the father was.

He didn’t see the truth right in front of him.