Chapter 5

The tiles were still warm beneath her feet—that was the first thing Samyukta noticed as she stepped into the adjoining bathroom. The second was the weight of three pairs of eyes tracing the curve of her spine as she reached for the shower tap. “Leave it open,” Manish’s voice slithered through the steam, his phone already raised. She knew better than to protest. The water hit her skin like a thousand tiny accusations, but it was the click of cameras that made her flinch. Their laughter coiled around her as she washed, the soap slipping between her fingers as often as their gazes slipped between her thighs. One of them— Aqeel, she thought—reached in to adjust the showerhead, his knuckles brushing her nipple deliberately. “Better angle,” he grinned, and the flashbulbs flared again.

By the time the cab dropped her off, her skin had long since pruned, though no amount of scrubbing could erase the phantom stickiness between her legs. She patted her hair into something resembling order, but the swollen set of her lips betrayed her. The walk up the driveway took an eternity; every step made the come inside her shift, a secret sloshing reminder. The living room lights were on—someone was waiting. She inhaled sharply, willing her knees not to shake as she turned the knob.

Dinner passed in a blur of roti and childhood anecdotes. Her mother-in-law complained about the maid while stacking plates, utterly oblivious to the bite marks blooming beneath Samyukta’s salwar. Little Neha climbed into her lap, sticky fingers clutching at her kameez. “You smell funny, Aunty,” the child announced, and Samyukta nearly choked on her water. She made up something about new shampoo, her eyes darting to Jiten’s exhausted face across the table. His shirt collar was frayed, his shoulders slumped from another fourteen-hour shift at the business. When he kissed her forehead later, his lips were chapped with fatigue. The words perched on her tongue—three boys, they held my wrists—dissolved into silence.

The bedsprings groaned as Jiten collapsed beside her, asleep before his head hit the pillow. Samyukta stared at the ceiling, her thumbs tracing the crescent-shaped bruises on her inner thighs. Manish’s father being the politician, had many contacts. Manish had warned “Tell anyone, and we’ll email these to your husband’s colleagues” while zipping his fly.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Samyukta stepped into the college building, her heels clicking against the polished floors with a rhythm that belied the turmoil in her chest. Every whisper that curled through the air seemed to coil around her, every sidelong glance from her colleagues burning like brands against her skin. Did they know? Had Manish—that grinning bastard with his predator’s confidence—already let slip what he’d done to her? The staff room felt suddenly claustrophobic, the walls pressing in as if they, too, were conspiring against her. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. Small towns had long memories and even longer tongues.

She forced herself to sit, stacking the exam papers with deliberate precision. The proxies’ papers—Manish, Suraj, Aqeel—lay on top like an accusation. The ink was too fresh, the handwriting too uniform, a mockery of academic integrity. Her throat tightened. She’d been reduced to this: a silent accomplice, her principles gutted in exchange for survival. The sigh that escaped her was ragged. The principal’s summons loomed like a executioner’s call.

Tripathi’s office smelled of lemon polish and false reassurance. His expression was placid now, the storm of yesterday smoothed into bureaucratic calm. “Please have a seat, Mrs. Menon.” The formality was a veneer. She knew what lurked beneath—the unspoken threat, the calculus of power.

“Thank you, sir.” Her voice didn’t tremble. She’d practiced that.

“What have you decided?”

The words tasted like ash. “You’re right. I’ll correct the papers properly. No more trouble.” Her surrender was complete, her defiance smothered under the weight of what they’d taken from her. The principal’s relief was palpable, his exhale gusting across the desk.

“Good decision, Samyukta.” His smile was patronizing, a king granting clemency to a defeated rebel. “You’ve done us all a favor. These boys ... you don’t want to provoke them further.”

Oh, but she did. She knew exactly what they were capable of—the bruising grip of Manish’s hands, the way he’d laughed as he pinned her, the obscene slap of flesh as he’d taken what wasn’t his. Her fingers twitched with the phantom memory of struggling. She nodded instead, the motion jerky, and fled back to the staff room.

The papers blurred under her gaze. Concentration was impossible. Her body remembered what her mind wanted to forget—the brutal invasion, the helpless pleasure that had coiled in her belly despite herself. She’d fought, yes, but her traitorous hips had arched into his thrusts by the end, her cries morphing from protest to something darker, sweeter. The shame of it scalded her.

Manish’s taunt echoed in her skull: I own your ass now. And he did. Those photos—her limbs splayed; her face contorted in unwilling ecstasy—were his insurance. One leak, and her career would implode. Her husband’s face flashed in her mind, the trust she’d shatter. The police? Useless. The media? A death sentence.