Chapter 2: The Price of Revenge

Sneha’s words looped in my mind: “I didn’t mean to, it’s just that I’m different from everyone else, but you treated me the same and gave me the same workload. Of course I felt unbalanced.” Her pouty face, wide eyes—she played the victim like a pro.

“How is this not asking for trouble?”

I was furious, slamming my hand on the table so hard my chai nearly spilled. “What makes you so special, haan? You think the world owes you?”

She laughed, “Sir, the taste of failure is really bitter, but this is your test, not mine. Don’t get angry. How about this: you give me ten lakh rupees, and I’ll help you clear your name.”

Her voice was sly, almost playful, as if she was bargaining in a Mumbai bazaar. She even winked, adding, “Carrying a bad reputation is really stressful, so I need ten lakh to go abroad and lay low. How about it?”

My glare could’ve melted steel. Sneha shrank back, muttered something under her breath—probably a string of Delhi abuses—and slammed the door so hard the glass rattled.

Two days later, Sneha was found dead in her rented flat. The suspect had jumped into the sea. The news ran for days, with sad music and experts arguing over ‘mental health in modern offices’. My phone never stopped buzzing—lawyers, police, distant relatives.

Getting revenge brought no joy—only endless regret. My wife’s laughter was gone, the baby’s cot empty. There’s no satisfaction in ashes.

Then, unexpectedly, I was reborn.

Staring at my wife’s smiling face on my phone’s lock screen—a photo from our anniversary at Sagar Ratna—I promised myself: this time, I’d strike first.

After the meeting, just as in my last life, I would have blamed whoever ordered the bubble tea. This time, I clenched my fists. The scent of bubble tea lingered—a strange mix of vanilla and regret.

But simply firing Sneha would be too easy. Suppressing my hatred, I told accounts to deduct her salary. The accounts guy, nervously tapping his Casio calculator, jumped to obey. The office peon hovered in the doorway, pretending to dust but listening intently.

Sneha stormed in almost immediately, her heels clicking, barely pausing to knock. “Sir, accounts said they’re deducting my salary. Why? I’ve worked so hard—how did I offend you? Intern salaries are already so low. I won’t even be able to pay next month’s rent—are you trying to drive me to despair?”

Tears welled up as she dabbed at her face, her mascara leaving faint trails. Her voice trembled, and for a second, I glimpsed her fear: struggling to pay rent in a big city, terrified of being underestimated. “I’m just a fresh graduate, Sir, why are you making things so hard for me? And everyone drank it, but when I took the receipt to accounts, they wouldn’t reimburse me. Isn’t that unfair?”

She looked at me, hoping for a miracle—or at least a lecture she could twist into Instagram content. I just shot a look at my assistant, who shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of his mistake. After all, he’d hired her. Now it was a slap in his face.