Chapter 1: The Party and The Spiral of Shame
The chandeliers spilled golden light across the banquet hall, where laughter and clinking glasses mingled with the murmur of expensive perfumes and designer silks. The city’s elites directors, actors, producers, politicians ; floated from one conversation to another like glittering shadows.
Devmohini Sen Chakraborty sat quietly in the corner of the hall, a crystal glass of iced drink in her hand. Her saree, a maroon Baluchari with a black border, clung to her with effortless grace. She smiled politely as people passed, some nodding in acknowledgment”The Bharatnatyam Dancer,” they whispered, “arey she is ,Dritiman Chakraborty’s wife.”
Her eyes wandered over the crowd, feigning calm. Inside, she always felt like an intruder in these circles of glitter and greed. Her world was rhythm, discipline, art. Here, it was champagne and sly laughter.
Everything was going well. And then all of a sudden, she felt it. A hand behind her. Warm. Heavy. Sliding over the silk of her saree at her hip, fingers brushing the bare skin where the drape had shifted.
Her spine stiffened. She knew that touch before she smelled him. The faint cologne mixed with whiskey on his breath. Dritiman.
Her lips tightened. She whispered, barely moving her face, “Not here. Please don’t.”
But his voice came low, edged with a smirk, brushing her ear:
“Why not? You’re mine, Mohini. Let them all see.”
Her breath faltered. She shifted slightly, eyes darting around. The directors’ wives were chatting near the buffet. Across the hall, actors were laughing at a joke. But then through the long decorative mirror on the wall she saw it. Two young assistants, their eyes catching the scene, whispering behind their glasses of wine.
Her cheeks burned. She pressed her glass harder against her lips, pretending to sip. “Dritiman… stop,” she hissed, her voice trembling.
He didn’t. His hand spread firmer across her Ass, thumb grazing her bare back. His smile was casual, as if nothing unusual was happening. And then, with a lazy turn of his head, he called across to a friend an aging producer.
“Arre, Roy-babu! You still chasing the young actresses, ha?” He chuckled, voice loud, playful, masking the obscenity of his hand on his wife under the table of laughter.
The friend smirked back, raising his glass, and fired a dirty joke of his own. The two laughed heartily, while Devmohini sat frozen, her eyes wide, her breath shallow, her heart pounding against the silk blouse that now felt too thin, too bare.
She wanted to disappear into the shadows. Yet Dritiman’s grip only tightened, his thumb drawing idle circles into her skin like a cruel reminder: You are mine. Always mine.
Devmohini shifted in her chair, her glass trembling slightly in her fingers. The ice clinked softly, a fragile sound swallowed by the party’s laughter and music.
Dritiman’s hand didn’t stay on her ass. It began its slow descent, tracing the edge of her saree pleats, slipping onto the silk covering her thigh. His palm pressed firmly, possessively, his thumb grazing the bare skin beneath the fold.
Her entire body stiffened.
“Stop,” she whispered through clenched teeth, her eyes fixed on the stage where a young actress was giving a speech. “They’ll see.”
His lips brushed her ear, his smirk hidden behind the rim of his whiskey glass.
“Let them see, Mohini. Let them know you belong to me.”
Her face burned crimson. She dared a glance at the long decorative mirror across the room. In its gilded frame, she caught it two men from the industry, standing with half-empty glasses, pretending to watch the stage but their eyes flickering toward her corner. She knew they saw. She knew they understood.
Her chest rose and fell sharply. She forced her lips into a brittle smile as another guest passed, nodding at her. She nodded back, praying they wouldn’t notice the way her husband’s hand was squeezing her thigh under the folds of silk.
“Dritiman…” Her whisper broke, her voice trembling, almost pleading.
But he only chuckled, leaning back, calling out casually to his friend across the table.
“Arre, Sen-da! You remember those Mumbai parties ? Where actresses used to line up just for a dinner invite?”
Laughter erupted around them. His friend fired back a filthy joke about old scandals, and Dritiman laughed heartily, glass raised high. To anyone else, he looked like the perfect host charming, confident, untouchable.
But under the cover of laughter, his fingers crept higher up Devmohini’s thigh, pressing through the silk, drawing small, maddening circles on her skin. She flinched, her breath catching audibly. Her nails dug into the stem of her glass, trying to ground herself.
Her eyes met his in the mirror. He caught her reflection, his smirk curling wider as if daring her to resist. And then, while chuckling at another dirty joke, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, voice dripping with possession:
“Smile, Mohini. They’re all watching. Let them see how much you enjoy being mine.”
Her smile cracked. Her eyes filled with shame. But she obeyed, her lips curving faintly, her body trembling under the weight of his hand climbing ever higher.
