CHAPTER 24
ROXANNE
I threw myself into work.
To outrun the silence. To drown the ache.
To prove I could still create beauty even when I felt broken.
Sahil had just returned—his cast was off, but he still needed physical therapy. He worked from home, recalibrating, easing back into the rhythm.
I became the face of the firm, pitching, presenting, negotiating with quiet authority. Our social media strategies sharpened. Proposals landed. And Studio Rasa’s name began to echo in the right circles.
Three months after Milan, the Sahai penthouse was finally ready. Furniture, artefacts, and decor arrived like clockwork. The handover was seamless. Every detail had been fought for, finessed, and now it all stood—elegant, lived-in, luminous.
Our sweat, grit, and vision had paid off.
Ritu and Sanjoy were ecstatic. And yet, as I stood in that luminous space, I wished he could see it.
Wished Marcello could see me. Not as a designer.
But as the woman he once held like she was art.
And that longing hit me low in the chest—quiet, sharp, refusing to fade.
To celebrate, Ritu threw a private party at Imara by Canto, tucked inside Mahalaxmi Racecourse.
She invited Mumbai’s crème de la crème—businessmen, philanthropists, fashion stylists, designers.
It was the kind of room I used to dream of entering.
Now, they were raising glasses to Sahil and me. To our success.
Inside Imara, the bass thumped like a heartbeat. Lights flickered like fireflies across walls. Music pulsed through the floor. Glasses clinked. Laughter spilled like champagne. The air shimmered—perfume, ambition, and possibility.
Ritu raised her glass.
“To Roxanne, Sahil, and the Studio Rasa team—thank you for turning my home into a masterpiece. Now let’s make tonight messy, loud, and unforgettable!”
Drinks flowed. Ritu swept me through introductions—stylists, architects, old college mates.
Sahil hovered nearby, sipping slowly, watching me with quiet admiration.
I caught his eye once, and he smiled—soft, proud.
A grounding smile in a night where everything else felt a little too bright.
I smiled back. We’d built something beautiful.
At one point, Ritu grabbed my phone to send herself a contact. Half-drunk, she fumbled through the list and accidentally tapped a name. I saw her shocked and mouth ‘Fuck’ before she cut the call quickly, laughing it off, never mentioning it.
I wondered who it would be but didn’t bother checking. Then she dragged me to the dance floor. We danced. We swayed. We screamed lyrics, spilled tequila, and let the night blur.
I let my hair down—really down—for the first time in months. I danced like I remembered joy. Like I was borrowing it for the night. Like I knew it would slip through my fingers the second the music stopped. Joy felt foreign on my skin, like a dress I wasn’t sure I still fit into.
Later, breathless, I slipped out to the terrace. The air was cooler here, quieter. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I shrugged, placed it on the bar counter, and asked for a glass of water.
A man approached. “You dance really well,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied, polite but distant.
“Can I have one dance?”
“I’m tired,” I said, turning to the bartender, almost asking for help with my eyes.
He leaned in, insistent. “Come on, just one more.”
“Well, there are plenty of other women who’ve danced better. I’m sure they’ll oblige,” I said with a dry smile.
“None like you though.” He stood closer.
“Couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
I frowned, jaw tightening. A familiar wave of disgust rose—unwelcome, heavy. I was about to smack him right in the face when Ritu appeared, eyes sharp.
“Hey Rahul, there you are. Your wife’s looking for you.”
He vanished.
“Thanks for saving me,” I said.
“Always,” Ritu grinned. “He’s a creep though.”
We leaned against the bar, catching our breath. She turned to me, voice softer now.
“How have you been, babe? Heard from your Italian hunk?”
I looked down. “No. Not once. I was stupid to think it was real. I let him in too fast. I let myself believe.”
Saying it aloud made something in my chest twist painfully—like the truth had teeth.
Ritu touched my arm. “It’s not your fault. You know that, right?
“But I wasn’t honest, Ritu. Not with him. Not with myself. My marriage collapsed, and I drove away the only man who made me feel alive.”
“Roxy… girl, are you in love?”
“Maybe. I can’t get him off my mind. I keep replaying it—what if I’d told him everything from the start? Maybe I wouldn’t be sitting here nursing a broken heart that doesn’t know how to heal.”
I swallowed hard, because even admitting that felt like ripping open a wound.
“You wear your heart on your sleeve, girl. It was bound to happen. I feel guilty for pushing you towards him.”
“Don’t do that. Those days I spent with him were the best. I’ve never felt this way with anyone.”
My voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough.
“He gives me butterflies. But maybe we were meant to be like shooting stars—brilliant, fleeting, never meant to stay. No matter how deep it felt, how many memories we built, our ending wasn’t an accident.
“Maybe the universe left us unfinished because the growth mattered more than the staying. And maybe it ended in silence because our paths were always supposed to diverge.”
Ritu bowed dramatically. “Wow, the shots have done a number on you, Baba Roxy. Have you considered preaching? Or becoming a love guru?” she asked, teasing. “That was beautiful—even though it went straight over my head.”
“Love guru who can’t keep a man.” We burst out laughing.
“I may have fallen too fast,” I said, resting my head on her shoulder. “I’m officially fucked.”
Ritu smiled—sad and warm.
“But you should be happy. You’re finally getting out. Just a few more months and the divorce is done.”
She ordered another round.
“You’re getting me too drunk,” I laughed.
“To drown out your sorrow,” she said, clinking glasses.
We drank.
“To finding better men,” Ritu said.
I raised my glass. “To forgetting the unforgettable.”
We sucked on lemons and shrieked as Sahil joined us for another round.
“To Studio Rasa,” Ritu cheered. “More success to you—and more parties to me!”
Glasses clinked.
“So, when are you guys flying to China?” she asked.
“Next week. We’ll be gone for a week.”
“Don’t worry, our office will handle any post-handover snags,” Sahil assured.
I nodded, eyes a little too glassy. The music throbbed around me. I was surrounded by people, by noise, by celebration. And yet, I felt empty. Like I was watching myself from the outside—smiling, dancing, pretending.
The ache of him not being here settled in my chest like a weight I couldn’t shift.
His absence wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Sharp.
It hurt in places I didn’t know could ache.
I missed him—in a way that felt carved into bone.
Not just his touch, or his voice but the way he looked at me like I was something rare.
And tonight, in a room full of people, I felt anything but.