The Voice That Sold Me - Pt. 01

Chapter 1

The private room was small, the kind that felt like it had been padded not just to muffle sound, but to swallow secrets. Velvet-lined walls soaked up the club's bass until it was nothing more than a pulse under the skin. A single wall sconce spilled red light across everything, turning it the shade of wet silk and old blood.

The sofa gleamed faintly, curved and low, sticky where the light touched it. On the glass table in the corner, two cigarettes lay crushed in an ashtray, a tumbler still beaded with whiskey. The air was thick -- cologne, sweat, and the faint chemical tang of something recently wiped away.

Samira stood in the doorway, shadow framing her like a picture Arif had ordered but not yet unwrapped.

Her heels clicked once, twice, as she stepped inside. The maroon dress he'd given her clung like a secret she couldn't return -- straps thin enough to snap, back bare, slit cut to reveal the soft, powdered sheen of thigh. Her skin caught the light in a slow shimmer. Her lips were red lacquer, her eyes lined dark, her breasts gently lifted and taped, the hormone-softened flesh aching against the cooler air of the room.

She looked perfect.

She felt hollow.

Arif was already sprawled on the sofa, shirt unbuttoned halfway, gold chain catching the light each time he breathed. His eyes slid lazily over her, lingering in places he owned without asking.

"Turn around," he said, voice low.

She obeyed. Slowly. Let him take in the length of her back, the sway of her hips.

"Good," he murmured. "Now kneel."

The carpet gave a muted sigh under her heels as she crossed the room. She lowered herself between his knees, the slit of her dress falling open just enough to flash silk panties. Her palms came to rest on his thighs, fingers barely pressing into the heat there.

Arif's belt was already loose under her touch. She unfastened it with slow, steady motions, the leather whispering as it slid free. The metallic rasp of the zipper sounded louder in the muffled room.

His cock sprang out -- thick, flushed, half-slick with sweat. The air between them changed, heavy with the musk of skin and something faintly sour from the day's wear.

She didn't recoil. Didn't lean in either. Just looked at it, as if cataloguing the veins and weight, her gaze cool and detached.

Her lips hovered just a breath above him, heat rising between them. She let that space stretch -- long enough for him to shift under her, long enough for the air itself to thicken -- before the first slow press of her mouth.

He groaned, "Good girl."

The head slid past her lips with a muted sigh of skin on skin, warmth blooming against her tongue. She tasted sweat and musk, and something older -- the stale tang of fabric that had held him too long. She swallowed it like a stolen thing.

Her tongue curled instinctively, tracing the ridge beneath the head, the motion slow enough to make his hand twitch against her scalp. She didn't rush. She let her mouth tighten around him by degrees, hollowing her cheeks until every pull felt like drawing him deeper into her.

Arif exhaled, low and shaky, his thumb brushing the hinge of her jaw. "That's it," he murmured.

She gave him what he wanted -- slow, measured strokes, the wet slide punctuated by the faint, obscene pop each time she pulled back just far enough to catch her breath. Saliva pooled, slickening him, until each movement was less a motion and more a glide, her lips a constant, glistening sheath.

Her mascara clung stubbornly to her lashes. Her gloss began to smudge at the corners of her mouth. Her jaw ached faintly. She swallowed against him, feeling the weight settle in her throat before she eased back to breathe.

His groans deepened. Hips rolled forward, impatience breaking into the rhythm. He pushed a little further, his grip tightening in her hair.

She let him.

He pushed deeper, the sudden stretch making her throat tighten around him. Saliva slicked her lips, spilling warm down her chin. Her eyes watered; the red of the room blurred.

Her breath caught--once, twice--until she was breathing through her nose, every inhale filled with his scent: musk, fabric, a faint trace of cologne. It was thick, clinging.

And then, under it, something else.

Coconut oil. Sweet, sun-heavy. The ghost of mango barfi.

Her knees pressed into the carpet now, but they remembered a different surface -- not scratchy, not stained, but cool cotton that smelled faintly of sun-dried laundry. The bass in the club thinned into the slow, whirring pulse of a ceiling fan. The red haze of the sconce softened into late afternoon gold, leaking in through half-closed curtains.

The air in Ahana's room was dense with July heat and the scent of coconut oil in her braid. Mango barfi wrapped in wax paper sat forgotten on the desk, next to a stick of sandalwood incense that had burned down to ash hours ago.

Sameer lay stretched out beneath her, bare skin gleaming faintly with sweat, the thin sheet pooled low at his hips. His gaze followed her every move, not in possession but in awe -- as if she might vanish if he blinked too long.

"You're always in your head," she teased, her fingers tracing the warm rise of his stomach, the faint flutter of muscle under her touch.

"Can you blame me?" he murmured, and there was a tremor of something shy in his voice -- a note she never heard from Arif.

Ahana leaned closer, her braid sliding forward like a silken rope across his chest. "Maybe I should give that mind something to remember."

Her mouth moved down him slowly, the way Samira had moved down Arif minutes ago -- but here, every pause was a promise, every breath against his skin a question waiting for his answer. She pressed a kiss just above the waistband of his shorts, feeling him stir beneath.

He shifted slightly, spreading his legs so she could settle between them. Her knees pressed into the mattress, her palms resting lightly on his thighs -- the same posture Samira knew too well now, but here it was steady ground, not a cage.

"Ahana..." he started, but it broke into a gasp when her tongue traced the line of his hip.

She pulled the sheet aside, revealing him fully -- not with the detached appraisal Samira had given Arif, but with a smile that curled in her eyes before it reached her lips. Her fingers wrapped around him first, testing his weight, the pulse beneath her grip, before her mouth joined, sealing over him with a slow, wet heat that made his head tip back against the pillow.

The rhythm she found was unhurried, built from listening -- to the quickening breath, the soft hitch when she pressed her tongue in just the right place. His hand threaded into her hair, light, reverent, like he was holding onto something precious.

She felt him grow harder against her, his body shifting toward her without force. No pushing. No taking. Just meeting her in the middle.

"I love you," he whispered, almost like he was afraid she'd stop.

She smiled around him and sank a little deeper, letting his voice vibrate through her.

When she finally let him slip from her lips, she kissed his stomach and said, "You taste like nervous promises."

Sameer laughed -- breathless, unguarded -- before pulling her up to lie against him.

"You're going to kill me," he murmured into her hair.

She let the words settle against her skin, warm as the curve of his arms. "You'll die happy."

And then the weight in her hair changed -- from gentle fingers to a fist tightening at the roots.

The cotton mattress was gone. Her knees were back on scratchy carpet. The gold light collapsed into red haze.

Arif's hips surged forward, forcing her deeper than she'd chosen to go. Her throat spasmed around him. The taste shifted -- no longer warm and clean, but sharper, muskier, edged with the sour tang of old sweat.

"Bas... chup reh, randi," he growled at first, the insult curling lazily off his tongue like he was testing it.

When she gagged softly, his grip tightened in her hair. "Haan... sab le, saali." His voice sharpened, each word pushing with his hips.

Her breath came in thin snatches through her nose. Saliva slicked her chin. His pulse pounded heavy against her tongue.

"Garmi chadh gayi na?" he taunted, his breath hot against her ear now. "Badi chalti hai... le ab, meri asli rani yeh hai... muh mein."

The last line came out like a snarl, stripped of any mockery, pure possession.

The fan's lazy hum in her head gave way to the dull, relentless throb of the club's bass leaking through the walls.

She didn't close her eyes this time.

She kept them open.

And stared up at him until he finished.

He sagged against the sofa, exhaling like a man who'd finished a meal.

Samira reached for a tissue, wiped her chin, fixed the smudge at the corner of her mouth. Her lipstick was ruined, her eyes rimmed darker with streaked liner. She rose without hurry, the maroon dress falling back into place, every movement rehearsed.

Arif zipped up without looking at her. "Good girl," he said, tossing a folded wad of notes onto the sofa.

She didn't thank him. Didn't even glance at the money. Her eyes found the cracked mirror by the door.

She reapplied her lipstick with two clean strokes, the red blooming back into place as if nothing had touched it. Behind her, Arif was already texting someone.

She looked at her reflection, touched the glass with the tip of her finger.

Somewhere, far away, another voice answered it -- warmer, softer, wrapped in gold light instead of red haze:

"You're such a fool. You'll die happy."

And she heard her own boyish laughter then -- light, unguarded, pressed into skin that smelled of coconut oil and summer.

"I don't want to die at all," Sameer said, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. "Not when I've got you."

She tilted her head to look at him, braid slipping forward across his chest. "Then you'd better keep me."

"I will." His eyes softened, but there was steel under it, like a promise he'd already started building in his head. "One day, I'll give you everything you deserve. A home. A life where you don't have to count coins for bus fare. I'll make you my queen."

Her lips curved, slow and knowing. "Rani?"

"Rani," he said again, the word rolling off his tongue with reverence, like it meant more than just a title.

She laughed softly and tucked her face into his neck. "Then you'd better be a good king, Sameer."

"For you?" He kissed her temple. "Always."

They lay there in the thick summer quiet, the ceiling fan stirring the air above them, the smell of coconut oil and sandalwood wrapping around their bodies. Somewhere outside, a street hawker called out the price of mangoes, the sound barely reaching them. Inside, it felt like time had paused -- like the world could wait while they held onto this moment.

And for that brief span of heat and gold light, she believed him.

Crack.

The gold shattered into red. The fan's hum collapsed into the dull, suffocating bass of the club.

Samira's head jerked sideways, her cheek flaring with heat. The taste of copper spread across her tongue.

"Dhyan idhar rakh," Arif growled, his fist still tangled in her hair. "Tu meri hai. Samjhi?"

Before she could move, he dragged her face back toward him, his hips pumping short, sharp thrusts against her lips. His breathing turned rough, guttural.

"Saali... badi chhup-chhup ke sochti hai... le, yaad rahe kaun malik hai."

The last words tore out with a groan, and then he shuddered, thick heat spilling across her cheek, her lips, the curve of her jaw. It ran in warm streaks down to her chin, catching in the fine hairs near her temple.

He held her there a beat longer, staring down at his work like a man signing his name.

Then he let go, stepping back and zipping up without another word.

The bass outside thumped on, but in Samira's head, all she could hear was the fading echo of another voice -- one that had once said Rani like a vow instead of a mark.

Warm streaks slid down her skin, cooling in the air-conditioned hush of the room. The smell clung -- sharp, musky, undeniable.

She didn't flinch. Didn't wipe it away immediately.

Instead, she rose, heels clicking softly on the tile as she crossed to the vanity. The cracked mirror caught her in pieces -- one eye, the curve of her mouth, the damp shine on her cheek.

Her fingers reached for a tissue. She dabbed at the mess with slow, deliberate strokes, watching each smear fade into white paper. Another. And another. Until the skin was clean, but the faint scent lingered in her pores.

She met her own gaze in the glass.

For a moment, she didn't see Samira at all. She saw Sameer.

Not the girl Arif might imagine -- but the boy on the rooftop in Burrabazar, skin browned by the sun, mango juice sweet on his tongue, anklets jingling in his memory because Ahana was laughing beside him. The boy who had believed he could fix everything with promises and love.

In the mirror now, the jawline had softened, the hair longer, the lips painted. The eyes were the same -- almost. Back then they had been open, hungry for the world. Now they were lined in kohl, but rimmed with something emptier than shadow.

"There you are," she whispered.

The glass fogged under her breath, blurring her face into someone she almost remembered. She didn't move until the haze cleared -- and the eyes looking back at her were no longer his, and not entirely hers.

Chapter 2

The mirror in the club's back room was cracked at the corner, silver bleeding into dark veins across the glass. Samira leaned closer, letting the fluorescent light catch her from above. It flattened her face at first, then slid down to soften the lines -- a trick she had learned: stand just so, tilt just enough, let the shadows do the work.

She was short -- barely five‑one without shoes -- but the six‑inch heels she wore stretched her up toward an average height, giving her the illusion of presence before she even spoke. Her frame was a tight weave of softness and curve. Her breasts -- full, high, the kind that strained against silk without apology -- rose and fell under the deep V of her dress. Hips flared under the cinch of her waist, the swell of her ass visible even from the front, each curve a silent dare to look. Her hair -- black, long, and heavy as spilled ink -- slid over one shoulder, catching light in a way that made it seem wet. Her makeup was immaculate: a warm shimmer along the cheekbones, kohl wings precise enough to cut, lips lacquered in a red that made men forget their names.

She studied this woman the way a jeweler studies a stone -- for flaws, for brilliance, for the way it could catch and hold a gaze.

And yet...

Under the paint and the silk, she still felt the ghost of a different body. Sameer's body. Narrower in the hips, flatter in the chest, skin browned from rooftop afternoons instead of the cool fluorescence of the club. Hair cropped shorter, sometimes sticking up from the humidity. Back then, mirrors hadn't been something to negotiate with -- they had been accidental glances in shop windows, reflections in puddles, a quick check to see if the wind had smeared mango juice across his cheek.

Sameer's eyes had been bright then, restless. The boy in them still dreamed of impossible things: a room of his own, a life not measured in other people's moods, a love that would last longer than the monsoon.

Samira's eyes -- lined in black now, framed by lashes heavy with mascara -- held the same shape but a different weight. Sameer had looked outward. Samira looked inward, calculating, holding herself together in the glass.

She tilted her head, watching the gold hoops at her ears catch the light. The woman in the mirror looked unshakable. The boy she'd been would have believed her.

The phone buzzed against the glass shelf under the mirror.

One word from Arif.

Down.

She slipped the phone back into her clutch, smoothed the skirt of her dress over her hips, and took one last look at the woman in the mirror. Then she stepped into the hallway, heels biting against the tile.

The bass hit her chest first -- a deep, constant thud that seemed to push the air out of the narrow corridor. Lights strobed ahead, painting the dance floor in blue, then red, then gold. Bodies moved like one living thing, heat rising from them in waves.

Arif was in the center, ringed by men with drinks in their hands and women on their arms. His gaze found her the moment she stepped into the crowd, a slight lift of his chin summoning her closer.

She wove between moving bodies until she was pressed to his side. His hand slid around her waist, firm, guiding her in front of him. He began to move to the music, his chest brushing her back with each shift of his hips.

The heat between her legs was still there -- a stubborn echo from the back room. She hated that she could feel it, hated that her body remembered the way her throat had stretched, the taste of him thick and bitter at the back of her tongue. The wetness clung to her now, as if her skin had taken on a memory of its own.

Hands grazed her from every direction -- strangers brushing her arms, her hips, fingertips skating over the bare skin of her back. The crowd's press was constant, the bass a cage she couldn't see but could feel in every nerve.

Arif's grip tightened at her hip, his mouth brushing her ear. "Smile," he murmured, though the word felt more like an order than a suggestion.

She smiled. For him, for them, for the eyes that watched her under shifting light. But inside, she was pushing against the invisible bars -- the ones Arif had locked around her long before tonight.

The music swelled. A man behind her let his hand linger too long on her thigh before the press of the crowd shifted him away. She could smell sweat, cologne, alcohol -- and under it, the faint, musky ghost of the back room. Her body responded despite her mind's resistance, a low ache unfurling in her belly.

She moved with Arif because she had to, because his hands told her where to go. But every sway of her hips was a negotiation -- between wanting to disappear and being unable to ignore the pulse between her legs.

Her lips stayed curved. Her eyes stayed bright. But somewhere behind them, the boy she'd been rattled the cage, testing the lock.

The lights fractured in her vision, strobing too fast, too hot. Blue, red, gold -- each one striking her eyes like a slap. The bass wasn't sound anymore, it was muscle and bone, shaking her from the inside. Sweat prickled along her neck where strangers' bodies pressed too close. Someone's perfume cut through the sour heat of alcohol; someone else's hand grazed her back again. The air was a mix of every scent she wanted to escape.

Her chest tightened, and the wetness between her thighs pulsed in sync with the bass -- an unwanted reminder of Arif's hand on her head, his voice in her ear. She blinked hard, but the crowd blurred anyway. Not from the smoke machine. Not from the lights.

Tears.

They clung at her lashes until they slipped down her cheeks -- and then the bass dissolved into the rush of water.

The air was warm and open now, tasting of the Hooghly's slow breath. The white columns of Prinsep Ghat glowed honey-gold in the last light of evening. Sameer sat on the low stone steps with Ahana straddling his lap, her dupatta sliding off one shoulder. The chatter of families and the creak of moored boats faded into the background, drowned by the thrum of his own heartbeat.

She had kissed him first, quick and testing, then deeper -- her hands cupping his face, her braid brushing his wrist. Sameer's hands had settled at her waist, feeling the heat of her through the thin cotton. Her breath came quicker, warm against his cheek.

Around them, the ghat moved in slow motion -- the shuffle of sandals on stone, the distant call of a chai seller, the ripple of water slapping wood. But inside their small orbit, everything was sharp and immediate: the taste of her lip gloss, the scrape of her teeth on his lower lip, the small sound she made when he pulled her closer.

She pressed her forehead to his, eyes half-lidded, smiling like she had stolen something precious. "You make me feel like the whole city's watching," she whispered.

"Let them," he'd said, surprising himself with how much he meant it.

Her fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt, nails grazing the skin of his stomach. Sameer's breath caught -- not from fear, but from the dizzying flood of wanting her.

And for a few reckless minutes, under the fading light and the lazy watch of the river, there had been no cage, no lock, no world beyond her weight in his lap.

A ferry horn bellowed somewhere downriver, the sound rolling low through the evening--

--and was crushed flat by the bass, back in her chest, back under the club lights.

The warm press of Ahana's thighs was gone. In its place: Arif's hand, heavy at her hip, fingers digging just enough to warn her what would happen if she tried to move away. The crowd jostled, bodies slick and loud against her skin. The air was sharp with sweat and liquor, and every brush of a stranger's hand was another reminder that here, she was an ornament, not a choice.

Her thighs trembled--not from the music, not from dancing--but from the ache the memory had left behind, that same ache now soured, twisted. The wetness between her legs clung to her, stubborn, a betrayal she couldn't hide.

Arif leaned down, his breath hot at her ear. "Good girl," he murmured, the words curling possessive around her like a chain. His hips pressed forward into hers, grinding in time with the beat.

The cage was shut.

And the boy she'd once been -- the one who had kissed Ahana under the fading light of the ghat -- beat uselessly against the bars.

The sound of a dusty Bengali disco track skipping every fourth beat.

Old speakers, balanced on bricks. The sound of a dusty Bengali disco track skipping every fourth beat.

And just like that --

She was back in Ahana's rooftop room, the city's noise far below, a table fan pushing hot air in lazy circles. Sameer stood awkwardly in the center as Ahana tugged him forward.

She was barefoot, the cotton of her pale yellow salwar brushing her ankles, clinging faintly at her calves where the heat had dampened it. The thin dupatta was looped carelessly around her neck, slipping with every movement, flashing the smooth line of her collarbone. Her skin held the deep gold of long summer afternoons; her hair, a thick black rope of braid, swayed against the curve of her back as she spun.

Kohl lined her wide, dark eyes -- a touch smudged now from the heat -- and her lips carried the faint stain of betel nut from earlier, a soft flush that deepened when she laughed. She moved with a looseness that was pure heat and ease, her hips swaying lazily even when the beat stuttered.

Sameer was all sharp edges softened by youth -- narrow shoulders under a faded blue shirt, collar damp from the climb up to her terrace room. His hair stuck up at the crown, dark with sweat, his smile shy but irrepressible as he tried to match her steps. The sun-brown of his forearms caught the light when he lifted his hand to mimic her pose, his wrists still wearing the cheap thread bracelet she'd tied there weeks ago.

Together, they looked mismatched to anyone else -- she in her bright cotton and careless beauty, he in worn clothes and the trace of a boy still growing into himself -- but in the space between their bodies there was no gap at all. They fit in a way that had nothing to do with symmetry and everything to do with knowing each other's rhythms.

"You said you'd dance!"

"I didn't say I'd be good at it."

"You're terrible," she laughed, spinning away from him, braid swinging, bare feet slapping the floor.

He tried to copy her -- one hand above his head, the other on his hip -- but ended up looking like a bird with a broken wing.

She cackled, closing the space between them to throw her arms around his neck. "You're my dying bird then."

They swayed -- no beat, no rhythm, just their bodies moving in a bubble where nothing else mattered. His hand slid to the small of her back, feeling the damp warmth of her skin through cotton.

She kissed the curve of his neck, her lips warm and certain. "Someday," she whispered, "I want a party with just us. No crowd. No noise. Just music and you."

"You have it now."

"Then never stop dancing."

And he hadn't -- not until the world dragged him out of that room.

She didn't remember leaving.

Just the flash of a phone screen.

The pressure of a hand pulling her through the smoke.

The sudden absence of bass.

Then cold leather against her thighs.

A door shutting.

Silence.

The BMW hummed like a secret down the wet streets of Park Street.

Rain misted against the windshield, the wipers slicing through light and shadow. Outside, Kolkata passed in neon reflections -- streetlights smeared across puddles, lovers huddled under shared umbrellas, old men smoking beneath overhangs that still dripped from earlier showers.

Inside the car, the air was colder than it needed to be.

The leather stuck faintly to the backs of her thighs. Her maroon dress had ridden up during the ride -- tight, shimmery fabric bunched mid‑thigh, exposing skin that still held the faint sting of waxing. One shoulder strap had slipped down to the crook of her elbow, leaving the slope of her collarbone bare. The deep neckline framed her breasts perfectly, their hormone‑softened flesh pressed higher by the seatbelt's diagonal pull.

Arif drove with one hand on the wheel.

The other rested on her bare thigh.

Not possessively.

Not gently.

Just there -- like a weight. Like proof.

His thumb traced idle patterns into her skin. Up. Down. Circles. Not quite affectionate. Not quite absent.

She didn't move.

Didn't push him away.

Didn't speak.

Her head leaned against the window, temple pressed to the cold glass. The vibration of the engine buzzed through her bones. Her breath fogged a small patch of the pane. She watched the city slide past -- shuttered storefronts, the blur of autorickshaws, the arch of a temple gate, a line of schoolchildren in yellow raincoats splashing through a flooded crossing.

The city was alive.

She wasn't.

She could still feel the sweat from the dance floor clinging to her lower back, the phantom press of strangers' hands on her hips. Her nipples still ached from the tape, but she hadn't touched them.

The silence stretched, broken only by the wipers dragging across the glass and the hum of the tires over wet asphalt.

Then Arif's voice cut through -- low, steady, and precise.

"I've been thinking... aaj tujhe kaise loonga."

Her eyes stayed on the window.

"I like you better... undone," he went on, thumb still stroking her thigh, pressing a little harder now. "Lipstick faili hui... hair falling into your face... dress pushed up to your waist." His gaze flicked toward her for a second before returning to the road. "Maybe on your knees again... ya bonnet pe, where the lights catch you."

She didn't answer. Didn't flinch. The words slid over her skin like oil -- coating, clinging.

"You're quiet," he said softly, but with weight. "Matlab... sun rahi ho."

The car slowed, then turned, slipping off Park Street toward the river. Neon gave way to stretches of dark road lit by the amber pools of streetlamps. The smell of wet earth began to thread through the air-conditioned cold.

When the white columns of Prinsep Ghat appeared ahead, lit like a photograph against the black water, her stomach tightened.

Arif's hand squeezed her thigh once before returning to the wheel.

"We'll park by the steps," he said, voice calm, almost conversational. "Main chahta hoon... tu upar dekhe... with the lights on your face."

She kept her eyes on the ghat as it drew closer, the shadows between its columns deep as open mouths. The same place where she had once sat in gold light with Ahana -- where Sameer had been warm and free -- now stood waiting like a stage she'd never agreed to step on.

The BMW rolled to a stop under the shadow of the columns. The low hum of the engine faded, replaced by the distant murmur of the river and the muted voices of couples scattered along the promenade. Somewhere down the steps, water slapped softly against stone.

Arif killed the headlights. For a moment, the car was just a dark shape among darker shapes.

"Chal," he said -- not loud, not urgent, but in a tone that left no room for hesitation.

She stepped out into the damp air, the night clinging to her skin. The smell of the Hooghly was the same as she remembered -- silt, algae, the faint metallic tang of wet stone -- but it no longer felt like home.

Arif came around to her side, his hand settling at the small of her back. The pressure was light, but unyielding, steering her toward the steps.

The white columns rose on either side, lit from below so that their edges blurred into shadow. Between them, the river stretched wide and black, broken only by the glint of ferry lights drifting far downstream.

They descended slowly, her heels clicking against the stone. Each step down brought the river closer, the air heavier.

He stopped when they reached the landing, where the water was just a few feet away. The wet stone reflected the lights from above, rippling under the faint breeze.

"Yahan," he said, motioning with a tilt of his head. "Stand by the edge. I want to see your face... when you realise you belong to me."

She obeyed, the hem of her dress brushing the damp stone. The river's current pulled at the light, stretching it into long, broken lines.

Arif stepped in behind her, close enough for his chest to brush her back. One hand slid from her waist to her hip, then lower, fingers finding the edge of her dress.

"Dekh," he murmured near her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "Poora sheher so raha hai... aur tu yahan mere saath khadi hai. Na bhaag sakti hai... na chhup sakti hai. Bas le sakti hai jo main deta hoon."

His fingers pressed higher up her thigh, his other hand closing lightly around her chin, tilting her head toward the black stretch of river.

"Yaad rakh," he said softly, almost kindly. "Iss sheher mein, jo tu hai... woh sirf meri wajah se hai."

The river whispered against the bank, the same sound she'd once heard with Ahana -- but now it was tangled with the slow drag of fabric up her thigh, the cold certainty in his grip, and the knowledge that here, even the water wouldn't carry her away.

The river whispered against the bank, the same sound she'd once heard with Ahana -- but now it was tangled with the slow drag of fabric up her thigh, the cold certainty in Arif's grip, and the knowledge that here, even the water wouldn't carry her away.

His hand slid higher, fingers parting the heat between her legs through the thin strip of silk.

"Bhosdike... gili hai," he murmured, not in surprise but in satisfaction. "Aur bolti hai tu mujhe nahi chahti."

She breathed, "Mat karo..." barely louder than the water.

"Mat? Tu bhool rahi hai kya?" His thumb pressed harder, slow circles against her. "Main tera malik hoon. Teri maa hospital mein thi... kisne bill bhara tha?"

Her jaw tightened. She didn't answer.

"Mera paisa hai," he continued, his voice even, almost calm. "Aur jab tak voh udhar chukta nahi hota... tu meri randi hai. Poora haq hai mera."

She stared at the black stretch of the Hooghly, the ferry lights smearing gold across the water.

"Pair faila," he said simply.

Her legs moved apart without thought. The hem of her dress rose, night air licking at damp skin.

He stepped in close, chest brushing her back, his cock hard against her ass through his trousers. One hand cupped her breast, thumb pressing over the taped nipple until it stiffened beneath the touch.

"Poora sheher so raha hai," he murmured near her ear, "aur tu yahan meri chut ban ke khadi hai."

She made a small sound, more breath than voice.

"Bol kaun hai tu."

Silence.

His grip on her jaw tightened. "Bol."

"... Teri," she whispered, barely audible.

"Kya?"

"Main... teri hoon."

"Good girl," he said softly, the mock praise colder than any curse.

The rasp of his zipper filled the space between them. The blunt heat of him nudged her, then pushed in slow and deep. The wet stone beneath her heels was slick, forcing her to clutch the step edge for balance.

"Chut... kitni tight hai," he groaned, moving inside her with slow, deliberate thrusts. "Udhar chukane mein saal lag jayenge... aur main roz tujhe aise lunga."

Her breath caught, her body betraying her with every reluctant shiver.

Arif's grip on her hip tightened until it hurt. "Now... let's see how I take you apart," he said, the earlier measured rhythm breaking.

The hand on her breast moved down, gathering the fabric of her dress in his fist. A single sharp pull -- and the thin maroon silk gave way with a muffled rip, the sound swallowed by the river's whisper. The torn fabric scraped her skin as he wrenched it up and off her shoulders, leaving her completely bare except for the black heels still hugging her feet.

"Better," he said, stepping back to look at her -- naked but for the heels, skin catching the pale light from the columns. "This is how I like you... all mine."

Before she could move, he caught both her wrists and bent her forward over the cold stone ledge, the river just below. His knee shoved between hers, forcing her legs wide. The wet stone was slick under her heels; she wobbled, calves tensing, every muscle straining to keep balance.

Her breasts hung free, swaying with each breath, the tips brushing the chilled stone. Below, the dark water reflected a broken image of her -- fragmented by ripples, her arched back and spread stance distorted like something seen through fever.

He freed himself again and pressed the blunt head of his cock against her. There was no slow entry this time -- just a hard, full thrust that made her gasp, her nails biting into the edge of the ledge. The stretch burned at first, but the heat between her thighs was already slick enough to take him.

Her jaw tightened, but her body betrayed her again, clenching around him.

He set a punishing pace, his hips slamming into hers, the wet slap echoing faintly off the stone. His hand pinned her wrists to the ledge, the other clamped on the back of her neck, locking her in a cage of muscle and stone. She could feel herself leaking around him with every thrust, warm wetness sliding down the insides of her thighs, catching in the cool night air.

Her hips began to move in tiny, unwanted sync with him, every roll pushing him deeper.

"See?" he taunted. "Your mouth says no... but this chut says yes."

The cold stone bit into her hips with every thrust. The heels made her arch higher, tilting her just the way he wanted. Drips of heat slid over her skin, proof of how much he was using her.

When she tried to close her knees, his voice sharpened. "Stay open. Let it spill. I want my mal drip down your legs when we walk away."

His pace turned brutal, pounding her into the ledge, the river's breeze licking her bare skin, making every slap of flesh sharper. Her vision blurred -- not from tears, but from the dizzying mix of cold air, hot skin, and relentless rhythm.

One last pull -- his grip on her neck tightening -- and he groaned low in her ear, spilling deep, the warmth flooding and mixing with her own wetness. She could feel it leak immediately, sliding out, trapped between her thighs by the angle and his weight still holding her down.

He stayed inside for a long moment, breathing against her spine. Then he pulled out, letting the mess drip freely down her legs. His zipper rasped shut.

"You belong to me," he said flatly. "And you'll stay that way... until every rupee is paid."

She stayed bent over the ledge, her torn dress useless at her waist, the night air cooling the stickiness on her skin. In the reflection below, she no longer saw herself at all.

The BMW slid out from under the shadow of the columns, the hum of the engine smooth, unhurried.

Arif didn't hand her the torn dress. Didn't tell her to hide herself.

Kolkata at night unfolded around them -- wet streets catching the glow of sodium lamps, headlights smearing into pale streaks on the windshield. She sat still, hands folded in her lap, bare skin pressing into the cold leather seat. Every bump in the road sent a small tremor through her thighs, the air-conditioned chill teasing across the trail still marking her legs.

They hit a red light near Esplanade. Arif rolled to a stop -- then didn't move when it turned green.

The glow from a tea stall spilled in through the open gap of her window, voices carrying faintly over the sound of the idling engine.

A couple on a motorbike pulled up beside them, the man leaning to say something to the woman behind him. Samira kept her eyes fixed forward, aware of the faint misted patch her breath had left on the glass, of the streetlight spilling pale over her bare shoulder.

Arif's hand rested on the gearshift, but his eyes flicked toward her profile and lingered. A small, almost amused exhale left him before he eased the car back into motion.

She didn't speak. Her mind felt unmoored, drifting somewhere far from the city blurring past her.

They cut through Park Circus, the air thick with the smell of rain on asphalt, and wound toward the quieter lanes near her apartment. The familiar landmarks slid by -- shuttered shops, the half-lit sign of a bakery that had closed hours ago -- until the BMW slowed in front of her building.

Arif didn't kill the engine.

"Ja," he said simply, his eyes on the road ahead.

She stepped out into the humid night, still naked but for the heels, the torn dress clutched uselessly in her hand. The sound of the car pulling away was swallowed by the hush of the sleeping street.

For a long moment, she stood under the weak yellow light outside the building, skin cooling in the damp air, before finally turning toward the stairs that would take her inside.

The stairwell smelled faintly of damp cement and mothballs. Each step up felt heavier than the last, the faint click of her heels sounding too loud in the narrow space.

Inside, the apartment was dark except for the dull orange light from the streetlamp outside her window. She didn't turn anything on. Just let the shadows settle over her like another layer of skin.

The torn dress slid from her hand to the floor. She didn't bother picking it up.

Her heels stayed on as she crossed to the small sofa and sat, the cool fabric pressing against her bare skin. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette was the only sound.

She could feel the faint stickiness between her thighs, the slow cooling of it, the ache low in her belly. Every movement made her aware of her body in ways she didn't want to be. Her hair clung to the back of her neck, still damp from the river air.

She stared at the opposite wall for a long time without seeing it. Her mind kept circling, trying to land on a thought -- anger, shame, anything -- but there was just a kind of static.

When her gaze finally shifted, it caught the mirror on the far side of the room -- narrow, streaked with dust.

She didn't move toward it. Didn't want to see what it would show.

Instead, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. The smell of the ghat still clung to her -- silt, stone, and something warmer she didn't want to name.

Her phone buzzed once on the counter. She didn't check it.

She stayed like that until her legs went numb, the city's noise thinning to almost nothing outside. Only then did she kick off her heels, one after the other, the sound small in the empty room.

The heels fell sideways on the floor, pointing in different directions, as if they had been walking two separate paths.

She wished she could follow either one.