The elevator doors slid shut behind Raj, and he stood there, alone, his skin still humming with the ghost of Teena's heat. The scent of her—sweat and sex and something floral—clung to his collar. He smelled her every time he breathed. A part of him was still inside her, and it would never leave.
His phone buzzed. Vikram. He let it ring. It buzzed again. Then a third time.
He answered, his voice flat. "What."
"Where are you, man? We're at the bar. Come down." Vikram's voice was loose, slurred at the edges. Half drunk.
"I'm going to my room."
"No, no, no. Come down. Uday's here. We're having drinks. It's Amsterdam, yaar. Don't be a bore." A pause. Then, softer, sly: "Unless you're busy. With Teena."
The double meaning hung in the air like smoke. Raj's jaw tightened. "I'm coming."
He ended the call and pressed the lobby button.
The bar was dim and sticky, the air thick with spilled beer and floor wax. Amber lights caught the worn gloss of the wooden counter. Vikram sat at a corner booth, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, his messy hair more disheveled than usual. Uday sat across from him, upright, a glass of water in front of him, watching Raj approach with those cold, calculating eyes.
"There he is," Vikram said, his grin wide and loose. He gestured at the seat beside him. "Sit. Drink. Tell us why you're so late."
Raj slid into the booth. A bead of sweat traced the back of his neck. The fabric of his jeans felt thick, heavy. He was acutely aware of every inch of his body—the dampness of his skin, the faint ache in his muscles, the smell he couldn't scrub off.
"Lost track of time," he said.
"Doing what?" Uday's voice was slow, deliberate. He didn't touch his water. His gaze didn't blink.
"Working. The process map." Raj's voice came out even. Controlled. A wall.
Vikram laughed, loud and warm. "Work. In Amsterdam. On the first night. You're hopeless, Menon." He drained his glass and signaled for another.
Uday said nothing. His eyes traced Raj's face, then dropped—slowly, deliberately—to his lap.
Raj felt it a second too late. The cool air against his skin. The open zipper. His fly was undone.
He reached down, but Uday was faster.
"Your fly is open, Raj." Uday's voice was quiet. A statement. Not a question. Not a joke.
Vikram turned, squinted, and burst out laughing. "Bro! What were you doing in that room?" He slapped the table. "Lost track of time, my ass."
Raj zipped his jeans. The metal teeth scraped loud in the sudden silence. His face was hot. His hands were steady, but only because he forced them.
"I changed earlier. Must have forgotten." He stood. "I'm tired. Going up."
"Already?" Vikram's grin was still there, but his eyes sharpened. "Stay. One drink."
"No."
Uday leaned back. His fingers drummed once on the table—a single, impatient beat. "Running away, Menon? Or running back?"
Raj met his eyes. "I'm going to sleep. Goodnight."
He turned and walked out before either of them could speak. The bar door swung shut behind him. The hallway was quiet, the carpet soft under his feet. He walked to the elevator and pressed the button. His reflection stared back at him from the polished steel doors—rumpled, flushed, guilty. A part of him was still inside her. And Uday had seen the evidence.
The bar door swung shut, and the silence that followed was thick and sour, like the dregs of a forgotten glass. Vikram reached for his whiskey, but his hand paused mid-grip, his loose, drunk grin tightening at the edges as he studied Uday's face. Uday's fingers drummed once, twice, three times against the table—a hard, impatient rhythm. His water sat untouched, sweat beading on the glass.
"That bastard," Uday said. His voice was low, flat, stripped of its corporate polish. "He fucked her."
Vikram let out a short, sharp laugh, but it died quickly. "Come on, man. You don't know that."
"I know." Uday's eyes were cold, fixed on the door Raj had disappeared through. "Her door was ajar when I passed. After dinner. I heard nothing. No voices. No laptops." He leaned forward, his solid frame casting a shadow across the table. "An hour. He was in there for an hour."
Vikram took a slow sip of his whiskey, buying time. "They were working on the process map. Raj said—"
"Raj said his fly was open." Uday's voice cracked through the air like a whip. "You don't forget your fly after 'working.' You forget your fly after—" He stopped. His jaw worked, grinding the words. Then he spat them out, low and venomous. "That little Christian slut. Married. Modest. Always with her 'I love my husband' talk. And she opens her legs for Raj the first night her husband isn't watching."
Vikram set his glass down. The clink was loud in the quiet bar. "Hey. That's enough."
"Is it?" Uday's eyes snapped to Vikram, sharp and hungry. "You've seen her. Those perky tits under those blazers. That ass in those tight skirts. You're telling me you've never imagined—"
"I'm telling you to watch your mouth." Vikram's voice was still light, but his eyes had gone flat. "Teena's a colleague. She's married. Doesn't matter what I've imagined."
Uday ignored him. He leaned back, a smile curling on his lips, slow and ugly. "Modest girls are the worst. You know why? Because they're hiding it. The sweet ones, the church-going ones—they're sluts inside. They just need the right man to unlock it. Raj unlocked it tonight." He laughed, a dry, brittle sound. "Good for him. Bad for George."
Vikram picked up his whiskey again. He didn't drink. He held it, the glass warming in his palm, and watched Uday with a careful, neutral gaze. "What's your problem, Rao? You jealous? You wanted to be the one to 'unlock' her?"
Uday's eyes glittered in the amber light. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I've thought about it. You want to know? I've thought about bending her over that conference table in Bangalore. The big one. Where she sits during reviews. I've thought about walking up behind her, pulling her skirt up, and taking her right there—while she leans on her spreadsheets. No foreplay. No sweet talk. Just—" He made a sound, a low grunt, his hips jerking forward in a crude, unconscious gesture. "She'd fight at first. They always fight. But then they stop. And they take it. And they never tell anyone, because who would believe her? Modest Teena. Sweet Teena. She'd carry it in her belly and never say a word."
The bar felt smaller. The air thicker. Vikram set his glass down carefully, deliberately, and met Uday's eyes. "That's rape, Uday."
Uday blinked. Then he laughed, a full, ugly laugh. "No. That's fantasy. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Vikram's voice was quiet. "In your head, maybe. But the words you used—that's not a fantasy. That's a confession."
Uday's smile didn't waver, but his fingers had stopped drumming. "You're telling me you've never wanted her? Not even once?"
Vikram was silent for a long moment. The whiskey in his glass caught the light, amber and restless. When he spoke, his voice was low, measured. "Teena's sexy. I'm not blind. I've seen her. I've noticed." He paused. "But I'm not into nonconsensual stuff. Never have been. And I don't talk about colleagues like that."
Uday's smile tightened. "So you're better than me?"
"I'm not saying that." Vikram stood, his lean frame unfolding with a lazy grace. "I'm saying I'm going to bed. You should too. Amsterdam's a big city. Find someone who actually wants you."
He left his whiskey half-drunk and walked toward the door. Uday sat alone, his water untouched, his fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against the worn wooden table. The bar hummed around him—distant laughter, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of strangers. He didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on the door, cold and patient, like a man counting the minutes until his next move.
Uday stood outside Teena's door longer than he needed to. The hallway was empty, the carpet a dull maroon that swallowed footsteps. He raised his hand and knocked—three short raps, professional, unhurried.
Silence. Then movement inside. Soft. Careful.
"Who is it?" Her voice through the wood, tight and wary.
"Uday. We need to talk."
Another pause. He heard the chain slide, the click of the lock. The door opened a crack, and Teena's face appeared in the gap—hair loose around her shoulders, a fresh kurta hanging on her small frame, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.
"It's late," she said. "Can it wait until morning?"
"No." He pushed the door gently, not forcing, just insistent. "Let me in, Teena."
She held his gaze for a long beat, then stepped back. The door swung open. He walked past her into the room, taking it in—the bed made, the lamp on, her laptop closed on the desk. The air smelled of soap and something floral. No sign of Raj. No sign of anything, except the faint indent on the pillow where a head had lain.
He turned. She stood by the door, arms crossed over her chest, her wedding ring catching the light.
"What do you want, Uday?"
He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I saw Raj leave this room. An hour ago. His fly was open." He let the words settle, watching her face. "He said he was 'working.'"
Teena's jaw tightened. "We were working. On the process map."
"For an hour? With the door ajar?" Uday tilted his head. "I passed by. Heard nothing. No typing. No talking." He took a step closer. "Just silence."
She didn't flinch. "We were reviewing documents. On the bed. Quietly."
"Quietly." He repeated the word like he was tasting it. "That's a good word for it."
"What are you implying?" Her voice cracked, just barely, the way it did when she was cornered.
Uday let the silence stretch. He walked to the window, looked out at the Amsterdam night—the distant lights, the canals catching the glow. "I'm not implying anything, Teena. I'm stating a fact. Something happened in this room. You and Raj. And I know it."
She didn't answer. Her arms tightened around herself.
"Don't worry," he said, turning back to face her. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me." He paused. "But George might be interested. Your husband. The one you swore you loved. The one you wear that ring for."
"Don't." Her voice was low, raw. "Don't bring George into this."
"Why not? He deserves to know what his wife does on business trips. Spreads her legs for a colleague the first night she's away." Uday's smile widened. "Modest Teena. Sweet Teena. Church-going Teena. What would the parish think?"
"There's nothing to tell." She was trembling now, her fingers gripping her elbows. "You're making assumptions."
"Am I?" He walked toward her, slow, deliberate. "Then explain the hour of silence. Explain Raj's open fly. Explain why you're in a fresh kurta at midnight, hair down, eyes red." He stopped a foot from her. "Explain why you look like a woman who just got fucked."
Teena's hand moved. Fast. A slap that caught him across the cheek, sharp and loud in the quiet room.
He didn't move. He touched his cheek, felt the sting, and laughed—a low, ugly sound.
"You have spirit. I like that."
"Get out." Her voice was shaking, but steady. "Get out of my room."
"Not yet." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of black lace. He held it up, letting it dangle between them. "Recognize this?"
Teena's eyes went wide. Her hand dropped to her side. "That's—"
"Your bra. The black lace one." He watched her face drain of color. "I found it in your suitcase yesterday. When I went through your things."
Her breath caught. A small, wounded sound. "You went through my suitcase?"
"You left your blazer in the lobby. Your luggage key was in the pocket." He shrugged. "I was curious. I wanted to see what kind of underwear a 'modest' married woman wears when her husband isn't watching." He let the bra fall to the floor. "I wasn't disappointed."
Teena stared at the lace on the carpet. Her hands were shaking. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "You're disgusting."
"Maybe." Uday turned toward the door. "But I'm also patient. And I know things now. Things George would pay to hear." He paused, his hand on the handle. "Think about that, Teena."
The door closed behind him. The lock clicked. She stood alone in the silent room, the black lace at her feet, her world tilting around her.