–SOHINI–
I wake up earliest in the house — 5 a.m. sharp, before the birds begin chirping or the first light paints the sky.
I step out of bed quietly, wrap my cotton shawl around my night suit, and walk barefoot to the bathroom. The water's cold, biting, but I don't flinch. Ritual over comfort.
After bathing, I stand before the small statue of goddess Durga on the shelf, wet hair dripping onto my forehead, and fold my hands. I don't pray for happiness anymore. I just whisper: "Give me strength."
Then I step into the kitchen — the heart of the house but not mine. I make non-sweet tulsi tea for Baba — my father-in-law. Green tea for the three sisters-in-law — Rita, Nita, Mita — who scroll Instagram while I serve them. Milk tea, extra sugar, for Ritwik, my husband.
The clinking of cups. The smell of burnt toast. The girls bickering. My father-in-law complaining about politics on the TV. This is how mornings begin.
Then comes the race — making breakfast, packing Ritwik's lunch box. He leaves first, always with the same line: "Did you pack my umbrella?" even if it's not cloudy. The girls leave after, in a flurry of perfume and kohl, leaving behind slippers and criticism.
And then — I rush.
Hurry to dress. Comb my still-wet hair. Catch the bus. Sometimes I get a seat. Mostly, I hang on to a rod above me, shoulders aching, feet crushed under heels and shopping bags. I'm squished between people, yet completely alone.
At work, I'm a customer service representative — the nameless woman on the line who says "Yes sir, I understand" even when I don't.
I listen to screams, threats, abuses, rants about broadband bills and refund delays. My seniors bark instructions like I'm a dog.
By evening, I'm dead.
And yet — I climb onto the bus again, sweat-stained and smelling of talcum and despair. Once home, I step into the kitchen again — make dinner, feed everyone, clean up, and finally crawl into bed like a ghost in someone else's life.
This cycle — it repeats.
Day after day. In the beginning, I felt trapped, tired, suffocated. But now? Now I don't have time to feel anything. Not even enough time to mourn my past, or miss Vedant Khanna — the only man I ever loved.
But sometimes — in between peeling potatoes or hanging clothes, I pause.
I look at the fading mehendi on my palm. And I wonder — Did I make a mistake?
Am I ruining his life too — Ritwik's, a good man, who deserves someone who can at least love him back?
I told him the truth when we first met. "I love someone else. I'm being forced into this. I'll marry you only for my parents' sake."
He smiled. Calm, almost amused.
"Same here. My parents are pushing me into it. So maybe we're perfect for each other — as imperfect strangers."
Then he said, with a gentle seriousness that still makes me respect him — "I'll never force anything on you. Just respect my family. That's all I ask."
And that's what I do. I respect him, I care for him, but I don't love him. I never did. I never could.
Because in the silence of the night, I still lie awake with Vedant's name burning on my tongue.
In the pitter-patter of rain, it's Vedant's laughter I hear.
When I close my eyes on a bumpy bus ride, I see his face.
And in the most ordinary mornings, the kind where nothing happens — I still know — I love him. I always did. I always will.
"Sohini? Why aren't you eating?"
Ritwik's warm hand rests gently over mine at the dinner table. His voice pulls me back from my cruel little dreamland.
Back to the present. To a home that feels like a waiting room. To a marriage that feels like a truce, not a love story.
To a life where I am everyone's daughter-in-law, wife, sister-in-law, employee — but never just Sohini.
And I smile at Ritwik. Because what else can I do?
"Just work and stuff. We have an important meeting tomorrow," I lied, quickly and quietly, hoping my voice wouldn't shake.
"That's why I keep telling you — resign from that job and start a family."
Baba's voice was firm, final. "I want to hold my grandson before I die."
I stiffened. My fingers gripped the edge of the table, and my eyes darted toward Ritwik, pleading. Say something. Please.
"Yes! I want to be an aunt too," Mita chirped, her giggle light and teasing. Nita and Rita joined in with nods and soft laughter.
"She's still too young," Ritwik finally said, his voice even. "Sohini's only in her early twenties."
"I had you when I was just a bit younger," Baba snapped back.
The words sank deep, burning with unfair weight. My jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I stood up abruptly, the scrape of the chair on the floor slicing through the dinner table chatter.
"I'm done," I muttered. Plate in hand, I rushed to the kitchen like I could outrun the pressure, the scrutiny, the expectations. Like maybe washing a few dishes would scrub the shame from my skin.
I turned on the tap and began scrubbing furiously. The sponge squeaked against ceramic, and my breath came in shallow bursts. Rage bubbled beneath the surface — but it wasn't just rage. It was helplessness. Guilt. Disappointment.
I wasn't ready for a child. I didn't want anyone touching me — not now. Not until I could forget Vedant.
Ritwik came in quietly, picking up a plate beside me. "I'm really sorry. About Baba. And my sisters," he said gently. "I'll wash."
I snatched the dish from his hand. "I can do it myself."
"I know you can," he replied, not offended. "I don't doubt your capability. But you've got an important meeting tomorrow. Get some rest."
His voice was calm. Kind. Unbothered by my mood. I hated that I couldn't hate him.
I glanced down at my toes, painted bright and hopeful — like they belonged to someone else. Someone happier.
"I'm not ready for a child," I whispered. "Not yet."
"You don't have to be," Ritwik said. "I won't force you into anything. Not until you want it. And Baba — I'll talk to him."
I nodded, slowly.
I didn't love him. Not yet. But I trusted him.
The next morning at work, something felt — off.
There was a buzz in the air, low whispers traveling across cubicles like smoke. People moved with a sort of restless curiosity.
"Did you hear?" Sweeta leaned toward me, grinning. "Our company got bought out. By the founder of some dating app."
I blinked. "A dating app?"
"Yeah. Zodiater or something? Apparently, he's a big deal. Like, billionaire-big." She looked more thrilled than worried.
"Oh," I mumbled, pretending to care.
I didn't, really. As long as my paycheck hit my account on the first day of the month, the rest didn't matter. I slid into my chair, dropped my purse, and got to work — emails, calls, reports. The usual.
By lunch, the floor was almost empty. I stayed behind, finishing up some reports. I liked the quiet.
A strange shiver crawled up my spine. The silence felt too deep, too watchful. I glanced around. Empty. Completely empty.
I shook it off and headed to the cafeteria, sliding into my usual seat beside Sweeta.
She was already in full fantasy mode. "So apparently, he's insanely handsome but terrifyingly strict," she said with a dramatic groan. "Imagine if he fell in love with me."
Karan from marketing snorted. "You need to stop watching K-dramas."
"It's not impossible," I chimed in, smiling at Sweeta's dreamy expression. Her eyes sparkled like a teenager in love with the idea of love.
"He's the founder of Zodiater. Billionaire. He probably doesn't even know our names," Karan said, shaking his head.
"But maybe," Sweeta sighed, "he bought the company just to see me work every day."
I laughed. She reminded me of myself at seventeen — before the world taught me what love ended up to.
"You're hopeless," Karan muttered, but he was smiling too. Their banter continued like always.
I quietly ate my paratha and dahi, half-listening, half-thinking. Secretly waiting for the day those two idiots realized they were in love.
I was halfway through my meal when my phone rang.
"Sohini, come to my cabin now."
It was my supervisor. Her voice was sharp. Urgent.
My stomach twisted. "Ma'am, is something wrong?"
"Just come. ASAP." Click.
I rushed upstairs, heart pounding. Knocked on the glass door, breath catching in my throat. "May I come in?"
"Come in. Sit down," she said, gesturing to the chair in front of her.
I sat, nervously clutching my dupatta.
She stared at me for a beat too long, then finally spoke. "Congratulations," she said, smiling through her usual serious expression.
"You've been promoted."
My jaw slackened. "What?"
Without looking up, she handed me a freshly printed document — several pages thick. Still warm from the printer. "Sign this."
"Why?" I asked, eyebrows scrunching. My fingers trembled slightly as I flipped through the pages. What even was this?
She finally looked up, expression sharp but smug. "You've been with the company a while now. Quiet, hardworking, efficient. The new board is impressed. You're being promoted — effective immediately — as the new Executive Secretary."
Executive Secretary? The title sounded intimidating. Vague. Big. Important. I had no idea what the job entailed, but the word Executive made me sweat a little.
Then she added casually, like it meant nothing, "The salary is ten point eight lakhs per annum."
My throat dried. "Wait — what? That's — " My voice trailed off, mind doing the math faster than my tongue could keep up. That was nearly double Ritwik's pay. Triple mine. From forty-five thousand to this?
"Why me?" I asked again, this time softer, almost suspicious.
"If you don't want it, I could offer it to Sweeta," she shrugged, deliberately uninterested.
I froze. My thoughts shifted — not to ambition, not even to prestige — but to needs. Mita's tuition fees. Nita and Rita's upcoming weddings. Our leaking ceiling. My father-in-law's creaking insulin machine. This money could mean freedom. Stability. Choice. My fingers twitched.
"You'll also get an international business trip every year, as a bonus," she added offhandedly.
That was my deal-breaker.
"I'm in," I whispered, the smile slowly blooming on my lips as I picked up the pen and signed like my life depended on it.
"Perfect. The CEO will speak to you soon," she said, eyeing the signature with satisfaction. "You may leave now."
I stood, still in a daze, dizzy with this sudden turn of fate. But as I reached the door, I hesitated. "Um — what exactly does an Executive Secretary do?"
She chuckled, almost indulgently. "Don't worry. The boss will explain everything. You've got the right experience. And you're more than capable, Sohini."
Her words were kind — but I couldn't shake the unease that crawled up my spine. Still, I nodded and walked out, trying to collect myself.
Back at my desk, I hadn't even sat when Sweeta leaned in, worried. "What happened? You okay?"
I blinked, still processing. "I got a promotion."
Her mouth dropped open. "You what?! Sohini! That's amazing! We have to celebrate — today!"
I laughed — a real, raw laugh — and agreed. "Sure."
Later, when most of the office emptied out, I was asked to stay back.
"The CEO's in the cabin," my supervisor said, lips drawn tight. "Don't be late. And don't piss him off. He's very particular."
I nodded silently, smoothing the creases on my saree. My palms were sweating.
I knocked.
"Come in," a voice called from inside — deep, smooth, precise.
I entered. He sat facing away from me, tall, sharp shoulders wrapped in an impossibly tailored black suit. The scent of expensive cologne and something darker — forest and wood — hung heavy in the air.
"Good evening, sir. I'm Sohini Das Banerjee," I managed. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "You wanted to see me, sir?"
He stood up at once. Tall. Sure-footed.
"Yes," he replied.
That voice.
That voice.
My breath snagged in my throat. I froze in place, like time itself halted around me. I knew that voice. I had memorized it once — alongside a hundred other things I'd tried so hard to forget.
"You've been promoted to Executive Secretary, Mrs. Banerjee," he said, voice low and deliberate.
I nodded stiffly. "Ye — yes," I stammered. I couldn't look up. My fingers clenched. I felt small. Unprepared.
"I expect full dedication to your responsibilities," he continued, tone unreadable.
"I — I will. I'll give it everything I have," I said. My throat felt raw. I bit my lip, eyes still fixed on the floor.
"Good," he said, a hint of amusement curling at the edge of his voice.
Then he turned — slowly, deliberately.
Face to face. Eye to eye.
It was him.
The voice I knew by heart. The face etched into my memories. The man I couldn't forget.
The man I still couldn't unlove.
"Vedant?" I whispered, breath catching in my throat.
Vedant Khanna. My past. My first. My forever mistake.