The clock on the wall read 3:47 a.m. when Anjali slipped back into her apartment. Her body still tingled from the hours she had spent in Suyash's bed. She moved like a ghost through the darkened hallway, clutching her saree tight around her. Her hair was still damp from the hasty shower she'd taken at his place—a necessary precaution. She couldn't risk walking through the building smelling of him.
The apartment was silent. Empty. Taarak wasn't coming back until morning, if at all. She had hours to compose herself, wash away the evidence, and build a strong enough mask to wear when he finally walked through the door.
She stood under her hot shower for twenty minutes, scrubbing her skin until it was raw. But no amount of soap could wash away what she had done—the way she had mounted the suyash. The way she'd spread her legs for him. She wasn't sorry for letting a man who wasn't her husband fuck her senseless on his bed, her nails digging into his back and her teeth marking his shoulder.
She wasn't sorry.
That was the worst part. She felt nothing for Taarak anymore. Not love. Not anger. Just a cold, hollow emptiness where her heart used to be. He had destroyed it, one lie at a time, one night away at a time, and one touch of another woman's hand at a time.
She put on a simple cotton nightie, sat on the sofa, and stared at the wall while waiting for dawn.
The sun rose. The birds sang. The world outside of Gokuldham went about its business, oblivious to the war brewing in Apartment 36.
At 9:47 a.m., she heard keys rattling in the lock.
Taarak walked in looking like a man who hadn't slept—his shirt was disheveled, he had dark circles under his eyes, and the faint smell of cheap hotel soap clung to his skin. He froze when he saw her sitting on the sofa, fully dressed, her eyes fixed on him like a predator watching its prey.
"You're up early," he said, his voice too casual. "Didn't sleep well?"
"I didn't sleep at all." Her voice was flat. Dead. "We need to talk."
He slowly set his bag down, narrowing his eyes.
"What's that about?"
"Priyanka."
The name landed like a slap. His face went through a rapid series of microexpressions—shock, panic, calculation, and then carefully arranged confusion. "Priyanka? My colleague? What about her?"
"Don't." Anjali stood up, her hands trembling at her sides. "Don't you dare stand there and pretend. I know, Taarak. I know everything."
"Know what? Anjali, you're not making any—"
"The Couple's Corner at the boutique hotel in Andheri. The boutique hotel in Andheri. The elevator." She pulled out her phone and tapped the cracked screen to wake it. She displayed the last photo. "You want me to show you? Do you want to see your face leaning in to kiss her while the elevator doors close?"
The color drained from his face. His mouth opened, then closed. For a long moment, he just stood there, caught and exposed in his guilt.
Then, something shifted in his eyes. The mask cracked, revealing not shame, but exhaustion underneath. Relief, even. It was as if he had been waiting for this moment for years.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Fine. You want the truth? Yes. I'm sleeping with Priyanka. I have been for eight months."
Those words should have shattered her. But she shattered last night on Suyash's bed, caught between waves of pleasure and pain. There was nothing left to break.
"Eight months," she repeated, tasting the words like poison. "Eight months of lying to my face. Eight months of coming home and kissing me goodnight after being inside her."
"It wasn't supposed to happen." He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace. "It just happened. We were working late, one thing led to another, and—"
"Spare me the fucking excuses." Her voice rose, sharp and jagged. "You fucked her. You fucked her in hotels, in your car, and maybe even in your office. Don't stand there and tell me it 'just happened.' You made a choice. Every single time, you made a choice."
"And what about you?" He stopped pacing and turned to face her. His eyes were dark and dangerous now. "You think I haven't noticed?"
She felt her blood run cold. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about him." Taarak stepped closer, his nostrils flaring. "That new neighbor, Suyash. The way he looks at you. The way you let him look at you. You've been glowing lately, humming around the house and wearing tight cholis that show off your breasts like you're advertising."
"That's ridiculous—"
"Is it?" He was inches from her now. He grabbed her wrist—not hard, but firmly—and pulled her toward him. Then he leaned in and sniffed her neck. Her neck. Her hair. Her collarbone.
She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.
"You showered," he said in a low, almost growling voice. "You showered the second you got in, I bet. Trying to wash me off." He pulled back, his eyes blazing. "I know you, Anjali. I've been with you for eight years. I know every sound you make, every smell on your skin, and every twitch of your body when you lie."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Let go of me."
"Not until you answer." His voice cracked. "Did you fuck him? Did you spread your legs for that young bastard and let him fuck you in our bed? In our bed, Anjali?"
"No," she said, but her voice wavered.
"LIAR!" He released her wrist and grabbed her shoulders instead, shaking her once, twice. "I can still smell him on you! That cologne of his—I've smelled it in the elevator, in the hallway, everywhere he goes. And now it's woven into your hair. On your skin. It's probably still in your cunt!"
She slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. His head snapped to the side, leaving a red mark on his cheek. He didn't move. He didn't react. He just stood there, breathing hard.
"Don't you ever speak to me like that," she hissed, her whole body trembling. "You want to know the truth? Fine. Yes, I slept with him— Last night. While you were sleeping with your prostitute in a hotel, I was in his bed. And it was good, Taarak. Better than anything you've given me in years. He made me come twice and held me while I cried about you. The man who betrayed me. So go ahead. Judge me. Call me a whore. But you made me this way. You, with your lying, cheating, selfish fucking cock."
The words hung between them, ugly and raw.
Taarak stared at her. For a moment, he looked like he was going to cry. Then it was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating calm.
"So we're both cheaters," he said quietly. "Both liars. Both fucking hypocrites."
"Looks like it."
He walked to the window with his back to her and his shoulders slumped. "What now? Do you want a divorce? Do you want to drag our families through hell? Are you going to tell your mother? My mother? The whole fucking society?"
She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "Divorce? In our families? My father would have a heart attack. Your mother would blame me. Everyone would take sides. Society would gossip. Jetha would find out. Bhide would probably convene a meeting about "moral degradation."
"So what? We just pretend?"
"We just pretend." She wrapped her arms around herself. "We live our lives. You have Priyanka. I have him. We keep our mouths shut. We show up to family functions together. We sleep in the same bed, but not together. And no one ever finds out.
He turned to face her. "Do you really think you can do that? Live a lie for the rest of your life?"
She met his gaze, her eyes dry and her heart made of stone. "You've been doing it for eight months. I think I can manage."
A long silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, Taarak nodded.
"No divorce," he said. "No telling anyone. But there are rules."
"Rules?"
"First, you will never bring him into this apartment. I won't have the scent of another man in my bed. Second, you don't embarrass me in public. No public displays. No sneaking around where Jetha or Bhide can see. Third, if either of us wants to end this arrangement, we talk about it. No drama. No revenge."
She considered each point. They were reasonable. Cold, but reasonable.
"Fine," she said. "And you keep Priyanka away from here. I don't want to see her face. Not at society events, not at Diwali parties, and not anywhere near me."
"Done."
They stood there, husband and wife, strangers bound by paperwork and social obligation. Fifteen years of marriage had been reduced to a business arrangement.
"I'm going to take a shower," he said, turning away. "Try to wash off the stench of this conversation."
"Good luck with that."
He paused at the bathroom door but didn't look back. "Anjali?"
"What?"
"I'm sorry. For what it's worth."
She didn't answer. She wasn't sure if she believed him. She didn't know if she cared.
The bathroom door closed. The shower started. Anjali stood alone in the living room, staring at the wall where their wedding photo hung—a picture of two young, smiling people who no longer existed.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a text from Suyash: "You okay?"
She typed back: "I will be."
Then she deleted the message thread, tucked her phone away, and went to the kitchen. The morning tea wasn't going to boil itself, the neighbors weren't going to stop watching, and the lie wasn't going to tell itself.