Pranati pressed her back against the cool wall of the yacht's narrow hallway, clutching the flashy costume in her trembling hands. From the nearby cabin, she could hear the cheerful chatter and laughter of the other performers—already changed, already wearing the skimpy bikinis, their excitement audible as they gossiped and giggled.
Her stomach turned.
With a sharp, silent breath, she slipped away from the door and hurried down the corridor, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. A small, discreet sign pointed her toward the restrooms.
She pushed open the door to the women's washroom and locked herself in the farthest stall.
For a moment, she just stood there, breathing hard. Then, the dam broke.
Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent. She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, but her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. The humiliation, the powerlessness, the betrayal—it all crashed over her at once.
Why did I come here? she thought, her mind racing. For Mom… for her reputation… but at what cost?
---
On the main deck, the bachelor party was in full swing. Music pulsed, glasses clinked, and laughter filled the salt-tinged air.
Arnav stood near the railing, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his expression detached. He'd been dragged here by a business associate—a last-minute invite he now regretted. The scene felt shallow, loud, and entirely disconnected from the quiet unease that had settled in him since last night's pooja.
A waiter, maneuvering through the crowd with a tray of colorful cocktails, stumbled slightly as someone bumped into him. The tray tipped, and a splash of bright orange juice landed squarely on the sleeve of Arnav's crisp white shirt.
Arnav's jaw tightened.
The waiter paled. "Sir, I'm so sorry—"
"It's fine," Arnav cut him off, his voice low. He set his glass down. "Where's the restroom?"
The waiter pointed hurriedly toward the interior. "Down the hall to the left, sir."
Nodding curtly, Arnav made his way inside, the sticky juice already soaking through his cuff. He found the men's washroom, pushed the door open, and stepped to the sink.
As he ran the water and began to dab at the stain with a paper towel, a sound filtered through the wall—faint, muffled, but unmistakable.
The sound of a woman crying.
He paused, his hands stilling under the stream of water. The sobs were quiet, restrained, as if someone was trying hard not to be heard. Yet the pain in them was raw, piercing the sterile hum of the yacht's ventilation.
Arnav's brow furrowed. He glanced at the wall separating the men's and women's restrooms.
For a moment, he considered knocking. Asking if she was alright.
But he stopped himself.
It's none of your business, a voice in his head warned. You're not here to rescue strangers.
Still, he didn't move. He stood there, listening to the quiet, desperate crying just a few feet away, an unfamiliar tension coiling in his chest.
He didn't know it was her.
But something in that sorrow felt strangely, uncomfortably familiar.
Arnav stood silently for another moment, the muffled crying from the other side of the wall pulling at something stubborn inside him. He couldn't just walk away.
He stepped closer to the shared partition and tapped his knuckles lightly against it.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice low but clear. "Ma'am… are you okay?"
On the other side, Pranati froze. She quickly wiped her tears with the back of her hand, clearing her throat.
"I'm… I'm fine," she managed, her voice thick but controlled.
Arnav didn't believe her. There was a hollow note in that 'fine' that echoed with his own hidden burdens.
"Then why are you crying?" he asked, his tone gentler than he'd intended. "If you're fine, the tears wouldn't be here."
There was a pause. Then a shaky breath. "You wouldn't understand."
"We might be strangers," Arnav replied, leaning his shoulder against the cool wall. "But sometimes a burden is lessened when it's shared. Even with a stranger."
The silence stretched, filled only by the distant thrum of the yacht's engine. Finally, her voice came through, softer, defeated.
"I'm being forced to do something I don't want to do. Something that… goes against everything I am. And I don't have a choice."
Arnav's jaw tightened. He knew that feeling—the cage of obligation, the weight of a path not chosen.
"There's always a choice," he said firmly, his own convictions hardening his voice. "Even when it feels like there isn't. Sometimes the choice isn't between 'yes' and 'no'… but between what breaks you and what bends you. Between losing yourself completely and finding a way to keep a piece of you intact."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You create your choice. You redefine the rules. You don't let their power become your prison."
To be continued..