The dinner was her idea, executed to her plan.

“He’s going to be your boss’s boss,” she told Mohan. “We should be hospitable. Invite him home. Something personal, not a restaurant.”

Mohan thought it was an excellent idea. He wasn’t a suspicious man. He sent the invitation through his office. Neil accepted.

On the day of the dinner she woke early.

The sheermal dough went on first — enriched with saffron milk, set to prove while she shaped the galouti and got them ready. By noon the apartment smelled of things that took time and care. She showered, dried her hair properly for once, and stood in front of the wardrobe.

The georgette saree went on last. She draped it carefully, adjusting until it sat exactly where she wanted it — low on her hips, her midriff bare, the fabric moving with her when she turned. She was not a small woman. Full chest, wide hips, a softness at her waist that she was usually careful about in photographs. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt none of that caution tonight. The burgundy against her warm brown skin was something. She knew it.

She turned away from the mirror when she was done, pinned the pallu with her mother’s gold pin, took the pin off. Why restrict a fabric that had a tendency to slide off? Mohan — the pin went back on.

When she walked out to the living room, Mohan was on the couch, reading the day’s newspaper for the third time, crossing and uncrossing his legs every few minutes. She told him he looked handsome. He did.

She went to answer the door when the bell rang.

Neil looked at her — face, silk, bare midriff, face — two seconds, unhurried, and what crossed his expression was not social politeness.

He handed her a bottle of wine. “You didn’t have to,” she said.

“Punjabi,” he said. “Can’t arrive empty-handed.” He stepped inside and the apartment felt different with him in it — warmer, more awake, as if the rooms had been waiting.

Dinner settled into its rhythm — Mohan talking contracts, Neil asking the right questions, Reshma moving between kitchen and table. In Mohan’s presence she was impeccably hospitable, the ideal wife receiving her husband’s important guest. She said nothing that could not be said at any dinner table in the city.

The call came at ten-fifteen. She watched Mohan’s face go through its sequence — confusion, recognition, duty — as he stepped away from the table. Site. Structural. Government inspector at six. When he came back he wore the expression of a man about to apologise.

“Emergency at Gurgaon. Inspector at dawn, I have to go tonight.” He looked at Neil with genuine discomfort. “I’m so sorry. Terrible hospitality.”

“Arora Infra never stops,” Neil said. “Go. Don’t worry about it.”

“Reshma will —”

“I’ll take care of him,” she said. Perfectly even. She looked at Mohan. “Go. Drive safe. Call when you get there.”

Laptop bag. Site jacket. A kiss on her cheek. Four minutes and he was gone.

She stood at the closed door.

When she turned, Neil was on his feet, moving toward the hall for his jacket — doing the correct gentlemanly thing, reading the situation exactly right, which was exactly wrong.

“Neil.”

He stopped and turned.

She reached up and drew her mother’s gold pin from her shoulder. The silk pallu loosened and slid and she let it fall.

“Have somewhere else you need to be?” she said.

Continue the story in Her Husband’s Boss.

All images are AI generated and do not depict any real person.