Age 34–39 (Anya)
——
Part 1: The Treadmill and Ambition
Rohan Bhatt kept Anya afloat after Abhay's death.
At twenty-four, he was transparent, talented, genuinely enthusiastic. His instinct for storytelling surprised her—the way he made people comfortable enough to reveal themselves. Anya found herself watching his content not just as mentor but as fan.
She'd attend his recordings, give him notes directly, watch him improve in real-time. Small pleasures of seeing her guidance take effect.
"The Aamir Khan story is trending at number three," Rohan said during one of their working sessions at his Bandra office. "Three million views in two days!"
Anya felt genuine pride. She'd casually mentioned that story—something overheard at a party—and he'd turned it into compelling content.
What Rohan didn't know—what Anya didn't know either—was that his viral success wasn't organic. Vikash Chandra's people had seeded it through right channels, ensured the algorithm picked it up, made certain the right influencers shared it at precise times.
The treadmill Rohan ran on looked like his creation. Felt like his own speed, his own momentum.
But someone else controlled the dial.
Rohan thought it was talent meeting opportunity. Maybe, somewhere deep in his subconscious, he suspected otherwise. But asking would make it real. His ego couldn't survive that truth.
So he worked eighteen-hour days, believed completely in himself, never understanding his treadmill's speed was set remotely.
And he had a goal. A clear, burning ambition that drove him harder than anything else.
He wanted to be a billionaire. Like Vikash Chandra.
Not just successful. Not just wealthy. But billionaire-level power. The kind of man who commanded rooms, influenced governments, built empires that employed hundreds of thousands.
He studied Vikash at family dinners. Watched how he spoke, how he moved, how every gesture was economical and every word weighted. Rohan wanted that presence. That authority.
That's why he worked so obsessively. Every podcast, every brand deal, every interview—they were steps toward that singular goal. Becoming someone who could stand beside men like Vikash Chandra as equals.
Not realizing he'd never be equal. That the game was rigged from the start. That his entire success existed only because Vikash allowed it.
Anya believed in him. Watched his success with genuine pride, thinking her mentorship had helped him find his natural trajectory.
She had no reason to think otherwise. Her parents had always wanted the best for her. Had always protected her. Had always guided her toward what would make her happy.
Maya had taken to Rohan immediately—genuinely, unlike most of her strategic relationships. She called him "beta," included him at dinners, connected him with her Nexus Models network.
But Maya's warmth toward Rohan served dual purposes.
She used Anya's relationship as distraction—when Vikash focused on Anya and Rohan, Maya had freedom for her den, for her addictions, for her private bohemian life that Vikash knew nothing about.
Yet she was also deeply jealous. Jealous of the attention Vikash gave Anya. Jealous of how much he valued Anya's supernatural gifts. Jealous that Anya might become the queen, might take Maya's place in Vikash's heart.
Maya had fought too hard for her position to surrender it. She was the queen. Anya couldn't be allowed to become the queen. That was the fundamental rule.
So Maya helped Anya's relationships when it served her purposes. And undermined them when they threatened her position. Always maintaining perfect balance. Always protecting her throne.
"He's building something," Maya told Anya one afternoon over chai. "That takes determination."
No pressure. Just observation before disappearing again into whatever creative sanctuary she occupied.
What neither woman spoke aloud: somewhere in Rohan's drive lived unacknowledged competition. An unconscious need to prove himself against Vikash. To become worthy of standing beside him.
Maya saw it. Anya felt it through her empathic gifts—that tension when Vikash praised her work, that determination when family obligations took priority.
But naming it would create problems needing solving.
——
Part 2: The Relationship and Albania
Rohan asked her on a Thursday evening after everyone left his office.
"I care about you. More than anyone. I want to be with you properly. As your boyfriend."
Vulnerable. Honest. Transparent.
Anya looked at him—twenty-four, handsome, successful in ways that seemed organic. No hidden agendas beyond wanting her.
She was tired of being alone.
"Okay. But understand—I'm complicated. My family is complicated."
"I don't care. I just want you."
She let him believe it was simple.
Being his girlfriend was easier than expected. They had dinner at Bandra restaurants. She attended recordings, gave him notes, watched him improve. He came to family dinners, charming her mother, respectful with her father.
She found herself actually enjoying it. The way he made her laugh. The way he listened about films. His enthusiasm reminded her what passion looked like before it got weaponized.
On his podcast, he dropped hints about his love life—never naming her.
"There's this woman. She's brilliant. Saw something in me before anyone else did."
His audience speculated wildly. Celebrity? Producer? The mystery became part of his appeal.
No one connected it to the Chandras. How could they? The family's privacy was absolute. Anya had no public presence. Only Arjun, Rohan's best friend, knew the truth—sworn to secrecy.
In July, an email arrived from Elena, her NYU classmate: Marcus and Javier were doing a documentary in Albania. Two months. They wanted her as director of photography.
Maya approved immediately. "Distance might provide perspective."
What she didn't say: Vikash had been taking Anya everywhere—farmhouse weekends, business trips, Paris, Switzerland—while Maya stayed home. The pattern suffocated her. Because Maya's den—her private sanctuary Vikash knew nothing about—was where addiction lived alongside bohemian freedom. Where drugs and escape existed without performance. Anya had been the perfect distraction to maintain that secret.
But Maya also needed Anya gone for another reason: to reclaim her position. Two months without Anya monopolizing Vikash's attention. Two months to reassert herself as queen.
By morning, the trip was approved.
Rohan didn't hide his disappointment. "Two months? That's a long time."
"I need this. Something that's mine."
She felt his fear—losing her, not being enough. But he understood pushing would backfire.
At the airport: "I love you. Come back safe."
She kissed him—tender, genuine—because despite everything, she did care. Just not enough to build a life on.
Albania was exactly what she needed. Tirana's chaos. The Alps. Evenings reviewing footage with Marcus and Javier. No supernatural gifts required. No intelligence work. Just filmmaking.
She posted photos occasionally. Sent Rohan supportive messages about his growing success.
Back in Mumbai, Vikash Chandra watched reports filter in. His daughter abroad, temporarily beyond his immediate reach. Useful for giving Maya breathing room. Useful for letting Anya believe she had independence.
But also useful for something else. For observing Rohan without Anya's influence. For seeing what the young man was really made of.
And what Vikash saw disturbed him.
Rohan's podcast content was changing. Getting edgier. More opinionated. He was starting to speak on topics he didn't understand—politics, social issues, controversies—with the confidence of someone who thought he was invincible.
Trying to be cocky. Weird. Arrogant. Thinking he could get away with anything because the channel was growing.
Vikash watched one particular episode—Rohan making careless comments about government policy, speaking with entitled certainty, clearly believing his platform gave him immunity.
It was everything Vikash despised. Reckless. Uncontrolled. Dangerous.
Every single one of Vikash Chandra's media appearances was meticulously planned. Scripts written weeks in advance. Journalists given explicit questionnaires. Every word, every gesture, every response carefully calculated and controlled.
And here was this twenty-five-year-old with his unscripted podcast, saying whatever came into his head, thinking talent and charm could replace discipline and strategy.
It was a major red flag.
More than that—it was unacceptable.
Vikash made his decision. The Rohan situation would end. Not dramatically. Not obviously. But it would end.
He adjusted the treadmill.
The podcast's algorithm performance started dropping mysteriously. Not dramatically—just enough to be noticeable. Reach declining slightly. Engagement down a few percentage points.
Rohan panicked, worked harder, couldn't understand why content that had been performing well suddenly wasn't.
His team ran analytics, adjusted strategies, tried different approaches.
Nothing helped.
Because the problem wasn't the content. It was the dial being turned down remotely. Vikash Chandra's people making quiet adjustments—less promotion here, fewer recommendations there, strategic throttling of the momentum that had felt so organic.
Then brand meetings started getting scheduled during times Rohan had blocked for personal life. Interview requests with major celebrities that couldn't be refused. Opportunities that demanded immediate attention.
The treadmill speeding up while simultaneously getting steeper.
All carefully orchestrated. All designed to make Rohan impossible to be with. To make him destroy the relationship through overwork and neglect. To make it Anya's choice to end it.
Rohan ran faster, got more tired, had less time for anything except work.
And through it all, he kept thinking: I just need to work harder. I just need to prove myself. I just need to become successful enough that men like Vikash Chandra see me as equal.
Not understanding he'd never be equal. That his ambition was precisely why he had to go.
Messages to Anya in Albania became shorter, more apologetic, tinged with exhaustion he couldn't quite explain.
Miss you. Channel hit 4 million but engagement is weird lately. Can't figure out what's wrong.
She typed back: Congratulations. You're doing amazing. Keep going.
Nothing about concern. Just genuine pride in his success, support for his ambition.
Because Anya had no idea what was actually happening. Believed completely that Rohan's success was organic, that his being busy was the natural consequence of growth, that her parents only wanted her happiness.
She trusted them. Always had.
Why would this be different?
——
Part 3: Valentine's Trap and the Break
Anya returned late November. Rohan met her with desperate enthusiasm.
But over the next weeks, their plans kept collapsing. He was constantly working. Meetings during their dinner dates. Brand opportunities requiring immediate response. Interviews that couldn't be refused.
Rohan kept canceling. Kept apologizing. Kept choosing work.
"I'm sorry, I have to reschedule—Deepika's team called."
"The Maldives trip needs to be postponed—Dharma Productions wants to discuss something."
"Can we do lunch instead? I have back-to-back shoots."
What Rohan didn't understand—what Anya didn't suspect—was that the treadmill was now at maximum speed. No slack. No rest. Just endless momentum that felt like success but was actually control.
Every opportunity that pulled him away from Anya had been carefully positioned. Every interview that demanded his time had been strategically scheduled. Every brand deal that required immediate attention had been precisely timed.
Vikash Chandra's people working invisibly, systematically making Rohan impossible to be with.
Anya felt hurt. Disappointed. But she understood. This was what success looked like. This was the price of building something significant.
She'd seen it with her father. With other successful people in her orbit. When you were rising, everything else had to wait.
Rohan was just being ambitious. Driven. Trying to become a billionaire. Exactly what made him attractive in the first place.
She told herself to be patient. To be supportive. To not be the needy girlfriend who couldn't handle her boyfriend's success.
The Valentine's Day setup was elegant in its simplicity.
Sejal Kapoor—rising star, luminous and connected—requested an interview for Valentine's Day. Her team insisted on the date. Perfect for romantic-themed content, they said.
Interview scheduled at intimate Juhu café. Late afternoon light.
What Rohan didn't know—what Anya didn't suspect—was that everything was arranged. The actress was on Vikash Chandra's payroll through her manager, through her production company, through enough degrees of separation that it seemed organic. The timing, the location, the photographers who'd "happen" to be nearby—all orchestrated.
Rohan apologized profusely to Anya. "I know we had plans, but this interview could be huge for the channel. Sejal Kapoor is massive right now. Can we do dinner after? I promise I'll make it up to you."
Anya understood. Professional obligations. This was important for his career.
"It's fine. Do the interview."
That evening, she spent Valentine's Day alone in her Malabar Hill bedroom, reading, scrolling through her phone, not resentful—just resigned to the reality that ambitious men had demanding schedules.
Around 10 PM, her phone buzzed. Photos from a friend: Is this your Rohan?
Sejal and Rohan at the café. Laughing, intimate. His hand on her arm. Her kissing his cheek for a photo. Both looking entirely too comfortable together.
Anya stared at the images, feeling cold fury rise.
Not because she suspected orchestration. Not because she thought this was arranged.
But because Rohan had chosen work over her on Valentine's Day and then gotten too comfortable with another woman. Because he'd been canceling their plans for weeks while apparently having time to flirt during interviews.
Because he wasn't prioritizing her. And if he couldn't do that now, at the beginning, what would happen later?
11 PM. Video call.
"I saw the photos."
His face froze. "What photos?"
She shared her screen.
"Anya, that's not—it was for her Instagram—"
"You promised me today. You canceled our dinner for this."
"It was work! You know how important—"
"And you couldn't keep it professional?"
"I did! That photo was just—she asked for it, for her social media—"
"You've been canceling our plans for weeks, Rohan. Weeks of work being more important. And then I see this."
"I'm building something! You know how hard I'm working—"
"More important than me."
"I didn't say that—"
"You don't have to. I can see it. We're done."
"What? Anya, no—"
"Goodbye, Rohan."
She ended the call. Sat in darkness in her childhood bedroom, feeling something essential break.
Not because she suspected manipulation. But because she'd chosen wrong again. Had picked someone who couldn't balance ambition with relationship. Who'd let success consume everything else.
Another relationship ended. Another mistake.
And in his study, Vikash Chandra closed his laptop, satisfied that another problem had been efficiently resolved. The young man with uncontrolled ambition and reckless content was no longer his daughter's concern.
Compliance worked better when it felt like choice.
For three days, Rohan tried desperately to reach her. Calls, voicemails, emails, messages through mutual friends. Nothing worked.
Fourth day, Arjun found him in his bedroom—dark, motionless, wrecked.
"Bro, you have shoots—"
"Cancel everything. I destroyed everything."
He didn't—couldn't—acknowledge the deeper truth. That his career had been built by forces he didn't control. His ego couldn't survive that knowledge. So it stayed buried, eating at him.
"My legs feel melted. Everything feels melted."
Week in that room. Canceled shoots. Drank alone.
Finally, Arjun intervened. "Enough. You want her back? ONLY way is showing her you're worthy. Let your work speak. Become so successful she has to notice."
Something shifted in Rohan's eyes. Purpose. Direction.
Over next months, Rohan became a machine. Gym 5 AM. Office 7 AM. Work until midnight. Podcast grew to 6 million subscribers. Brand deals multiplied.
But inside, something changed. Boyish enthusiasm gone. Replaced by driven intensity. Grim determination.
Slowly, painfully, became someone who might be worthy. Though of what, he no longer let himself articulate.
——
Part 4: Dilip's Emails, The Warning, and ten Years
After their coffee date years ago—4th July, 2013—Anya had said casually, almost dismissively: "You can write if you want. I can't promise I'll respond."
Permission. However vague.
So Dilip wrote.
At first, frequently. With passion. With barely-concealed longing wrapped in observations about films, about Mumbai, about the way light hit buildings at certain times of day.
Dear Anya,
Saw a documentary about urban development that made me think of you. The way the filmmaker captured transition—that's what you talked about at the book launch. How change reveals character.
I keep thinking about that conversation. About how you see the world. It's different from anyone I've met.
I know you're busy. Just wanted to share.
Still thinking of you.
—Dilip
He sent them into silence. No responses. But no rejection either. So he kept going.
Two years of this. Sometimes twice a month. Sometimes weekly when inspiration struck. Always beginning "Dear Anya." Always ending with some variation of still thinking, still hoping, still here.
Anya read every email. Not with warmth or hope or romantic interest, but with her empathic gifts fully engaged, understanding the loneliness behind each message. She'd herself shared her email password with Vikash years ago—security measure. She knew her father read everything alongside her.
Vikash made his own assessments. Making notes in Dilip's digital file about persistence, consistency, psychology.
From a social media account—@angel040713, the numbers commemorating their 4th July, 2013 coffee date—Anya would occasionally track what Dilip was up to. His observations about Mumbai changing. His thoughts on local journalism. His photos of disappearing Irani cafés.
She'd like his posts occasionally. Nothing more. But enough that Dilip knew someone was paying attention.
Two years in, Dilip's phone rang. Unknown number.
"Mr. Shrivastava? This is regarding an advertising collaboration. My employer would like to meet you. Tomorrow, 7 PM? Cafe Coffee Day at Carter Road, Bandra?"
"Who's your employer?"
"Mr. Bombaywala. Tomorrow at 7 PM."
The call ended before Dilip could ask more questions.
The next evening, Dilip arrived at Cafe Coffee Day on Carter Road wearing casual clothes—jeans, a simple shirt. No media kit, no prepared pitch. If this was legitimate, they'd lead the conversation. If it wasn't, he'd find out soon enough.
At 7:03 PM, a man walked in who couldn't possibly be an advertising executive.
Late fifties, built like he'd spent decades in military or security. Immaculately dressed in expensive casual wear that looked effortless but probably cost more than Dilip's monthly rent. But it was his hands that struck Dilip immediately. Massive. The kind that could crush bones.
"Dilip." Not a question. The man extended one of those massive hands. "I'm Bombaywala."
First names. Interesting.
Dilip shook it, felt his own hand completely enveloped. The grip was controlled but the strength underneath was obvious.
"Please, sit."
They sat. Bombaywala ordered black coffee. Dilip ordered cappuccino.
Bombaywala smiled warmly. "Thank you for meeting me. I know the call was vague."
"It was." Dilip kept his tone neutral, friendly. Waiting.
"I'm always interested in local media. Mumbai Pulse—interesting name. How did you come up with it?"
They talked. Easily, naturally. Bombaywala asking questions about the website, about Dilip's vision for hyperlocal news, about the challenges of competing with established outlets.
Dilip went with the flow. Let Bombaywala lead. Answered honestly, not trying to sell anything.
After fifteen minutes, Bombaywala shifted gears smoothly. "You know, I'm friends with Manav Hiranandani. The fashion curator. Wonderful man. Very connected."
The name landed with subtle weight. Manav Hiranandani. The fashion book launch. Where Dilip had met Anya.
"I've met him once," Dilip said carefully. "At an event a couple years ago."
"Ah." Bombaywala smiled. "Small world, Mumbai. Especially in certain circles."
The subtext was clear: I know where you met her. I know the connection.
Bombaywala eased into more personal territory. "Tell me about yourself, Dilip. Not just the work. The life behind it."
"What do you want to know?"
"You've been married, I understand."
"I was. Divorced about twelve years ago now."
"Children?"
"Two. I don't see them anymore. Custody situation made it… difficult."
Bombaywala's expression was sympathetic. "That must have been painful."
"It was."
And somehow, the conversation opened up. Bombaywala asking thoughtful questions about loneliness, about rebuilding after loss, about finding purpose when family structures collapsed. His warmth made it easy to talk. Made it feel safe.
They talked for thirty minutes. About Dilip's life, his hopes, his daily rhythms. Normal conversation. Pleasant.
Finally, Bombaywala checked his watch. "I should let you go. Thank you for your time."
They stood. Walked toward the café exit together.
They reached the door. Bombaywala held it open, gestured for Dilip to go first.
Dilip stepped outside into Carter Road evening—sea breeze, traffic noise, the familiar chaos of Bandra.
That's when Bombaywala stopped him.
"Dilip. One more thing."
Dilip turned.
"Mr. Chandra doesn't want you to write. He doesn't like it."
Two sentences. Delivered gently, almost apologetically. But with absolute finality.
The words hit like ice water.
Dilip stared at him. Processing.
Mr. Chandra. Anya's father. Vikash Chandra.
Bombaywala extended his hand again. "Take care, Dilip."
They shook. Then Bombaywala walked away, disappeared into Bandra evening crowds.
Dilip stood outside Cafe Coffee Day for a moment, still processing. Then walked to his car in something like a daze.
The drive home took twenty minutes. Long enough for the full weight of the meeting to settle.
When Dilip got home, he sat at his kitchen table and let the anger come.
The entire pleasant conversation had been interrogation. Gathering information. Establishing baseline. Making him vulnerable so the final blow would land cleanly.
And he'd opened up eagerly, shared everything, never suspecting until that last moment outside.
But worse than the manipulation was what it revealed about Anya.
She couldn't tell him herself. Couldn't have an adult conversation. Had to send her father's enforcer to clean up her mess like some South Bombay princess too delicate to handle her own life.
This is how rich SoBo girls operate, Dilip thought bitterly. Dependent on daddy to handle everything. Too cowardly to be direct. Just hide behind papa's money and papa's men and papa's power.
He'd thought she was different. That coffee date had felt real. Her permission to write had seemed genuine.
But she was just another spoiled Malabar Hill girl after all. Using people for amusement, then discarding them without the decency of honest conversation.
Dilip opened his laptop. Stared at the draft email he'd been composing. Deleted it.
And stopped writing.
Not because Vikash Chandra had asked him to. But because Anya Chandra had revealed herself to be exactly what he'd feared—another privileged woman who let others do her dirty work.
He was done.
Fourteen Months Later
Dilip had kept his silence. No emails to Anya for fourteen months.
He'd tried dating. A divorced teacher. A marketing executive. Both ended pleasantly, without drama.
Because none of them were her.
But his anger had faded into weary acceptance. She was Vikash Chandra's daughter. The math didn't work. It had been foolish to hope otherwise.
Then one evening, scrolling through social media, he noticed something.
His post about Mumbai's disappearing Irani cafés—a photo of Kyani & Co., his accompanying thoughts about spaces holding memory—had been liked by @angel040713.
He clicked on the account. Minimal followers. No identifying information. Just occasional likes on his posts over the years.
The numbers: 040713. 4th July, 2013.
The day they'd had coffee.
Something in his gut told him it was her.
This was Anya's way of saying: You can write again.
Dilip stared at the like for a long time.
Part of him wanted to ignore it. To maintain his dignity. To refuse this game where she controlled everything through indirect signals.
But another part of him—the lonely part that remembered how she'd listened, that believed maybe there was more to her than privilege and cowardice—wanted to respond.
That night, he composed a new email. Different tone entirely.
Dear Anya,
Been thinking about those Irani cafés. The way spaces hold memory even after they're gone.
Mumbai Pulse got a small consulting contract last month. Enough to keep things running.
Watched "In the Mood for Love" again. Still holds up.
—Dilip
Shorter. More restrained. Like writing to a friend. Like keeping a diary someone might occasionally read.
No passion. No longing. No "still thinking of you."
Just life, shared plainly.
He sent it without expecting response.
And kept writing after that. Whenever he wanted to talk. Sometimes twice a month. Sometimes one email every couple months. No schedule. No pressure.
Always beginning "Dear Anya." Always ending with just his name.
Just diary entries sent to an email address. Things happening in his life. Films he watched. Observations about Mumbai. His website's struggles and small victories.
Never pushing. Never hinting at feelings. Never asking for anything.
Just writing because it gave him somewhere to put his thoughts. Because somewhere, he believed, she was reading.
That was enough.
What he didn't know: Anya read every email with detachment. Understanding the loneliness, feeling nothing romantic. Just empathic recognition of someone sharing their life with no expectation.
And Vikash read them too—alongside her, monitoring everything. Made notes in Dilip's file. Tracked his patterns, his psychology, his stubborn consistency.
Vikash kept detailed files on Dilip's deteriorating financial situation. The closed factories. The struggling website. The declining but not destitute circumstances.
And when Dilip sold his car—clear sign of serious financial distress—Vikash made a calculated decision.
But first, something happened that mattered.
Anya's empathic gifts drove her to action. When she understood someone's pain—really felt it—she couldn't help trying to solve it.
She'd been monitoring Dilip's social media sporadically from her @angel040713 account. Saw his posts getting less frequent. Felt, even at distance, his growing desperation.
When he posted about selling his car—trying to make it sound practical, strategic—she felt it like a punch.
She mentioned it to her father at dinner one evening: "That man Dilip—the one who used to write. His website is struggling. Seems sad to let local journalism die completely."
Vikash looked up from his newspaper. "Interesting you'd mention him."
"Just an observation."
"I'll consider it."
What Anya understood as compassion, Vikash understood as opportunity.
Three weeks later, Mumbai Pulse received a consulting contract. Small monthly retainer. Nothing Dilip could trace to Chandras. Just enough to keep breathing.
Vikash wasn't helping from kindness. He was maintaining an asset. Keeping Dilip financially dependent but functional. Available for when he'd be needed.
Because a man who wrote ten years despite silence—despite anger, despite humiliation—that man had stubborn loyalty. And stubborn loyalty, properly leveraged, was useful.
Anya saw his posts stabilize. Felt, through her empathic gifts, his relief.
She took small satisfaction in helping solve a problem.
Not understanding her father had different reasons entirely.
Not suspecting that her father had orchestrated anything with Rohan either.
Anya trusted her parents. Believed they wanted the best for her. Believed that when relationships failed, it was because the men weren't right—not because forces were engineering the failures.
She was thirty-nine years old and still believed her parents protected her rather than controlled her.
That awakening would come later.
After forty.
When it would be too late to change anything.
ten years of diary entries sent into silence.
ten years of patience that asked for nothing.
ten years that would eventually matter, when Vikash decided those qualities were exactly what he needed.
——
Part 5: Forty
Her birthday arrived—January 11th, her fortieth—with quiet family dinner. No celebration.
Following weeks, her mother introduced men. Cinematographer, architect, tech entrepreneur. Anya attended coffee dates, gallery openings, dinners. Smiled. Made conversation. Felt nothing.
She spent evenings in her childhood bedroom at Malabar Hill—cream and gold décor her mother chose, though Anya had added touches. Books on filmmaking. Grandmother's grimoire hidden in locked drawer. Brass owl figurine serving as anchor for clairvoyant work.
She read Dilip's emails with detachment. Understanding his loneliness. Feeling nothing romantic. Just empathic recognition of someone sharing their life with no expectation.
February arrived cold and gray.
Meanwhile, across city in modest Bandra apartment, Dilip Shrivastava composed his monthly email.
He'd noticed the consulting contract months ago. Knew it was unusual timing. Suspected somewhere in his intuitive core it wasn't entirely coincidental.
But didn't investigate. Just accepted the small mercy and kept writing.
Dear Anya,
Mumbai Pulse got that consulting contract last year. Kept the lights on. Made me think someone somewhere notices small operations like mine. Or maybe just luck.
I'm fifty now. ten years older than when we had coffee.
Still here.
—Dilip
Hit send without expecting response. Because that's what he did. Just wrote.
Had no idea that @angel040713 belonged to her. No idea about the monitoring or the infrastructure around his life. Just knew he couldn't stop writing.
And somewhere in Malabar Hill mansion, Vikash Chandra read the email alongside his daughter, made notes in Dilip's digital file, smiled slightly.
Consistency. Loyalty. Stubborn hope surviving ten years of silence—even after anger, even after humiliation. Useful qualities indeed.
He closed his laptop and walked to his daughter's room. Time to have a conversation about her future.
Vikash knocked once before entering—courtesy he rarely extended.
Anya looked up from bed where she'd been scrolling mindlessly.
"We need to talk. About your future. You're forty now."
Anya said nothing. Just waited.
"There are options. We need to discuss them." He stood, preparing to leave. "Think about what you want. We'll talk properly soon."
Not request. Not negotiation. Just notification that decisions were coming.
After he left, Anya sat with familiar weight of being her father's daughter.
Something was being arranged. Something involving her future.
She'd find out when he decided to tell her. Not before.
She pulled up Dilip's email, read it:
Still here.
Then closed it and stared at ceiling.
Trusting, as she always had, that her parents knew best.
That whatever came next would be for her own good.
Because that's what she believed at thirty-nine.
That her parents loved her and wanted her happiness.
The awakening would come later.
After forty.
When understanding would arrive too late to change anything.
END OF CHAPTER 8