Tanvi, seated with a laptop open and documents around her, answers quickly.
Tanvi (politely):
"Yes, ma'am?"
Meera (measured tone):
"Can you try connecting me to Abhimanyu?"
Tanvi (checking her tablet):
"Ma'am, sir is currently in a high-level investor meeting. He's not expected to be free for at least another four to five hours. If it's urgent, I can try reaching the executive line."
Meera (slightly firmer):
"No, that won't be necessary."
(A pause)
"I just needed to inform him I'm attending an agency-hosted event tonight. I will be leaving shortly."
Tanvi (immediately alert):
"Understood, ma'am. Please allow the security detail to accompany you. I'll inform them and have one of them report back the moment you leave the premises. If anything feels out of place, do not hesitate to contact me directly."
Meera (softly):
"That won't be necessary, but thank you."
Tanvi (with quiet deference):
"Of course, ma'am. I'll keep everything in place."
They disconnect.
————————————————————
MEERA
She places the phone down, a flicker of hesitation crossing her eyes — just for a second.
She walks to the wardrobe, pulls out a sleek, figure-hugging black dress — one she hasn't worn in years. She brushes her hand over it.
Then she clenches her fist, raises it slightly, and lets out a quiet, subtle fist-pump. The rebellious thrill hits her just for a moment.
Meera (under her breath):
"I'm not just anyone's wife."
She walks toward the mirror, the sound of her heels tapping confidently across the marble floor.
Satisfied with her look she leaves for the event
The city glows in shades of amber and neon. A sleek black sedan pulls up at the front drive.
Meera steps out, dressed in the sharp black dress — minimalist, bold. Her hair is pinned in a soft twist, makeup minimal but arresting. The guards open the car door and subtly trail behind her, maintaining a discreet distance.
Inside the car, she had already messaged Rizwan:
"On my way. 15 mins tops."
Now, she checks her phone once — no reply. But no need.
A low hum of bass pulses through the air. Flashing lights, paparazzi trying to get a shot, and luxury cars line the entrance. But Meera doesn't go through the front.
Rizwan is already there, waiting near a sleek, cordoned-off side entrance marked "VIP & Sponsors Only." His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, a bit too smug, leaning against the wall like he belongs there.
As soon as he sees her, he straightens up and walks to her, a grin spreading across his face.
Rizwan (whistling low):
"Miss Singhania doesn't waste time. You look… wow."
Meera (coolly):
"I thought we were here to work."
Rizwan (with a chuckle):
"And network. Big difference."
Without another word, he leads her inside, past velvet ropes and security that barely looks twice. The guards at the back nod — they've been instructed by Tanvi to trail Meera wherever she goes.
IN THE CLUB
The space opens up into a world of strobe lights, designer cocktails, curated chaos. Celebrities, models, socialites, and a few sharp-suited men who definitely aren't here for the music.
The VIP section is cordoned with glass. Meera and Rizwan step into it. She spots a few familiar faces — top sponsors from Dubai, a liquor mogul, two editors from international fashion magazines, and the Mumbai head of a global marketing house.
Meera's spine straightens instinctively. She steps into her persona. Poised. Untouchable.
Rizwan (leaning closer):
"Now remember — you're not just here to look pretty. These men are here to see if you can represent more than a face. If you want global, this is how it begins."
Meera (eyes scanning the crowd):
"I know how this works, Rizwan. Just make sure the camera angles are clean and the drinks aren't drugged."
She picks up a glass of sparkling water instead of champagne. Eyes calm. Hands steady.
Rizwan (half-amused):
"Your husband really messed you up."
Meera (without turning):
"No. He made me aware."
The bass drops as a camera flash goes off, catching her mid-turn — perfect shot.
————————————————————
ABHIMANYU
The Manhattan skyline glows behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Abhimanyu stands alone in his private study, still in his charcoal three-piece suit, tie loosened, shirt slightly unbuttoned. His jaw is clenched, his knuckles white as he scrolls through his phone.
Then—he stops.
A paparazzi photo, just uploaded.
"Meera Singhania spotted at Bombay's elite club soirée with modeling agency insiders and international sponsors. Whispers of global endorsements spark buzz."
She's in the middle of the frame—glass in hand, strobe lights painting her skin gold, her smile poised, enigmatic. Behind her, Rizwan's leaning in a little too close.
His hand tightens around the phone.
SMASH.
The phone hits the bookshelf, shattering into pieces.
IN MUMBAI 3:15 AM
Tanvi's phone rings, the screen flashing: ABHIMANYU SIR.
She jolts up, answers instantly.
Tanvi (nervously):
"Sir—?"
Abhimanyu (voice like cold steel):
"What the hell is going on in Mumbai?"
Tanvi (blinking, stammering):
"S-Sir… Ma'am told me she had to attend an agency party. I didn't know it was—"
Abhimanyu (cutting her off):
"You didn't know? Is that your excuse? You're her handler. You don't get to 'not know'. You were in the same damn hotel!"
Tanvi:
"I swear, sir—she only said it was a professional thing. I even told her to take the guards—"
Abhimanyu (furious):
"Don't justify. Don't. The next time anything — anything, even her breathing differently — happens without me being informed, you're fired. Do you understand?"
Tanvi (quietly):
"Yes, sir."
Abhimanyu:
"She's my wife, Tanvi. Even if the world doesn't know, you do. That should've been enough."
Click.
The line goes dead.
Tanvi stands frozen after the call. Her heart's pounding. Her hands tremble slightly as she types into the secured agency group chat.
Tanvi (firm, typing):
"Get Ma'am out of the club. Now. I repeat—NOW. Full extraction mode. Secure and relocate her to the hotel. No questions."
She then opens her personal chat with Rizwan.
Text to Rizwan:
"You're dead. Run while you can."
————————————————————
MEERA
Black SUVs screech to a halt. Four tall, suited bodyguards step out in formation. Inside the club, the strobe lights still dance as Meera laughs politely at something a sponsor says. Rizwan's eye catches the guards pushing through the VIP entrance.
His smile fades.
Rizwan (muttering):
"Oh… shit."
Meera turns, brows furrowed—then she sees the guards.
Lead Guard (to Meera, discreet but firm):
"Ma'am. We need to leave. Now."
Meera (confused):
"What—why?"
Guard:
"Instructions from Tanvi Ma'am. Please don't make a scene."
Rizwan (trying to intervene):
"She's fine! Why are you creating—"
Guard (coldly):
"Not your concern, sir."
Two guards flank Meera protectively, one walks ahead clearing the crowd, the fourth keeps his eye on Rizwan like a hawk.
Meera, fuming and embarrassed, is swiftly escorted out of the club.