Chapter 4: The Breakfast After

My boss, a foreigner, had always said, “Rohan, you have leadership in your blood!” Sometimes I wondered if he just liked my masala chai. I’d turned down the overseas posting before—Sneha’s English was weak, she loved the sound of the pressure cooker and the smell of monsoon rain. I’d promised to always choose her over ambition.

But now, with nothing holding me back, I agreed. My boss was thrilled, sending celebratory emojis. "You won’t regret this, Rohan!"

The next morning at breakfast, Amit stumbled in, his shirt wrinkled, stubble rough, dark circles under his eyes. He spooned extra chutney onto his plate, smirking at me.

He elbowed me: "Bro, rough night? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did I keep you up? We’re all men, you get it. Don’t be dumb, yaar—no woman’s worth more than yourself."

The words stung, but I swallowed my anger. He lowered his voice, winking: "Last night’s chick was something else, yaar. That waist, those long legs—full paisa vasool. Only thing, she wouldn’t let me take photos—said she loves her husband! Hilarious, na?"

I slammed my tray down, the clang of steel plates drawing stares. Amit’s bravado faltered. I met his gaze, cold and hard. "You’re right. I’ll never let a woman hold me back again." My voice was flat, but inside, something snapped free.