Chapter 6: Love’s Illusions and Harsh Truths

Once, I foolishly believed Arjun loved me.

That illusion warmed many cold Delhi nights, when the fog curled around his bungalow and the only sound was distant traffic and my own pounding heart.

I’d run away from home at eighteen. He took me in.

I still remember—my salwar soaked with rain, my father’s curses echoing as I knocked on Arjun’s gate. He opened the door, half-smiling, half-irritated, and yanked me inside before the neighbours could stare.

He shielded me from my drunk parents, sent me to a top university abroad, filled my account with generous allowance, shaping me into a Delhi socialite.

He made sure I had everything—MacBook, foreign internships, etiquette classes. In photos, I looked the part. Inside, I was still the scared small-town girl.

Over the years, it must’ve cost a fortune.

I once added up the tuition fees—enough for a second-hand BMW. I wondered if he kept the receipts, like others keep family albums.

But Arjun never mentioned it.

His pride wouldn’t allow it. Money flowed from him like water from a municipal tap.

His background was sensitive; going abroad wasn’t easy, but he always managed. Each trip took dozens of hours. He’d arrive exhausted, eyes red, but still ask if I’d eaten, if I needed more money.

I remember him landing in London, scolding me for eating Maggi, then handing me a fat envelope of cash—like that could fix everything.

I once asked why he was so generous.

Arjun’s friends had lovers, but they just tossed cash. He put in real effort.

He’d just smile, swirling his Scotch, and say: “Duniya paison pe chalti hai, Priya. But not everyone is worth the trouble.”

Arjun smiled, every word deliberate: "Tu toh woh waali hai jo main sadak se utha ke laaya. Ab mehenga paalna toh banta hai."

It stung, but I pretended to laugh. Later, in bed, I’d replay those words, wondering if I was a pet, a project, or something in between.

Looking back, I finally understood. He’d given me the answer long ago.

Sometimes, love is just another chain. I never wanted to be a pet, but I was too young to walk away.

I was just a pet; he could keep me, discard me, even have two at once.

But Arjun didn’t want to throw me away.

Not yet. He kept me close, never close enough.

The morning after Rhea Singh’s engagement party, he sat in front of me without even changing clothes: "Hamare beech sab same hai. Tension lene ki zaroorat nahi."

I stared at his rumpled sherwani, the lipstick on his collar. Something in me broke, but I stayed quiet.

My voice trembled: "Matlab?"

I fidgeted with my saree’s pallu, eyes on the floor. I knew, but needed to hear it.

Arjun was cold: "Woh interfere nahi karegi."

His words stung. He spoke of love like it was a contract.

"Nahi chahiye toh… das crore le ke nikal ja."

He slid a cheque across. The number was dizzying. My chest tightened.

I closed my eyes and said I’d think.

Truthfully, there was nothing to consider. I couldn’t be a mistress. I just needed a night to make it seem like a tough choice.

I spent that night on the balcony, counting wall cracks, listening to neighbours’ TV serials. Even then, I knew the answer. I just needed courage.

Nosy friends saw the engagement news and called: “Arey, Priya, ab kya karegi?” I ignored them, deleting messages.

Arjun, sitting right there, answered a call: "Dekha use, fark nahi padta."

He sounded casual, like talking about the weather. My stomach churned.

"Kya reluctant hona?"

He laughed: "Bas khel hai."

That was the final blow. I’d never hated myself more.