Yamini walked to the desk where she had kept her phone. She didn’t recognize the number. Unknown numbers usually meant PR teams or security calling from a new line. She picked up without thinking. “Hello.”
There was silence.
Yamini frowned, wondering if the line hadn’t connected properly. She was about to hang up when she heard something.
It sounded like an uneven breath.
“Yamini.”
Her hand tightened on the receiver. Every muscle in her body went rigid.
She knew that voice. She had listened to years of sweet-talking lies spoken in that voice.
It was Rahul. Her cheating ex-husband.
???
“Yamini, please don't hang up,” he said quickly. His voice was thinner than she remembered. “I need to talk to you. It's urgent.”
Her heart didn't soften.
It hardened.
“How did you get this number?” she asked.
Her voice was steady. No shake. No warmth.
“Your studio website,” he said. “You updated it with your India number.”
She remembered the argument with Bharat barely a day after their wedding. He had told her to change her number for security reasons. She had refused.
“Why are you calling me, Rahul?”
A pause.
Then his voice came through, frantic and raw. “You and your royal family have destroyed me.”
She frowned. “What?”
“My company has collapsed,” he said. “Funding pulled. Investors gone. Contracts canceled. International partners withdrew. Everything.”
“That sounds like business risk,” she said flatly.
“It wasn't.” His voice sharpened. “This was coordinated. Systematic. I thought it was bad luck at first. But it wasn't.”
“You cheated on me,” she said. “Repeatedly. You drained my bank account and left me with nothing. You don't get to call me and act like you're the one who was wronged.”
His breath came out ragged. “I know I cheated. Many times. You suspected. You argued. But you never had proof.”
Her jaw tightened. He was right. She had suspected for a long time and stayed anyway. She had told herself that loyalty toa marriage she chose mattered more than her self-respect. It had taken her too long to stop believing that.
“But the last time,” he continued, his voice dropping, “the photos just appeared out of nowhere.”
Her fingers tightened on the phone.
She remembered. An anonymous number. Clear, perfectly timed photographs.
She had never known who sent them. She had assumed it was someone from the hotel or a disgruntled business contact of Rahul's. She had been too relieved to question it.
