CHAPTER 31
ROXANNE
Back in Mumbai, at Khushnaaz, Vihaan moved out. It wasn’t dramatic. He simply packed his things and moved into my mother’s apartment. He said it would be best for the two of us to live separately for a while.
I didn’t argue. I just let him go because I was tired of pretending being someone Vihaan could still love.
My identity dissolved into being the perfect wife, the perfect mom, the one who held it all together, the one who planned and smiled while quietly disappearing.
My mother moved in the next day, quietly replacing Vihaan—filling the silence with warm meals and gentle distractions. It felt like I’d stepped back into my younger days—living with my mother again. I didn’t have to worry about meals anymore. Or Kyra’s school runs.
It was a relief. A regression. A return to something simpler. At least I wasn’t functioning like a robot in repeat mode—cook, clean, work, care for everyone but myself. Without emotion. Without feelings. Just motion. Just duty
I was losing myself in the service of everyone else, resenting the family I had built and the woman I had become. I had to do better. Be better. Not just for Kyra. For the woman I still wanted to become.
Sahil and I worked day and night to get everything ready for the handover. The furniture from China arrived just in time.
The site was complete. We stood in the centre of the massive office, surrounded by sleek walnut desks, brass accents, and sculptural lounge chairs—modern, minimal, commanding.
We were excited, exhausted yet triumphant. I barely thought of Marcello anymore. Except in the quiet of the night. He hadn’t called. I hadn’t called either. But I checked my phone. Every night. Just in case.
I lived with the memory of his mouth on mine, the last kiss in China—brief, bruising, unfinished.
The handover was a success. We photographed the space, hoping it would be picked up by leading design magazines. Within weeks, our work was featured in three publications. I wore my best smile. The team cheered. The client was thrilled.
I stood in the centre of that pristine space, surrounded by glass and steel and light. And I felt nothing. I smiled for the cameras. For the world. Because that’s what strong women do.
We smile. We pose. We perform. Even when we’re hollow.
Mr. Gulati called a few days later. The final instalment—long pending-would be processed the following week. I offered to send Sahil. But Gulati insisted we both be present. Their European chairman was flying in to personally congratulate us. I agreed—hesitantly, and informed Sahil.
The following week, we arrived at the office. Mr. Gulati greeted us and escorted us to the MD’s cabin—the one we’d designed.
“Wait here,” he said. “He’ll be with you shortly.”
The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Mumbai skyline like a living painting. To the left, the marble desk gleamed under soft light. Opposite it, a sleek storage unit with a TV nestled between shelves of books, records, and even a vintage turntable. I was surprised by how personal it felt.
“Who even uses records anymore?” I muttered.
Sahil took a seat, relaxed. I wandered towards the bookshelf, fingers grazing spines. Mostly coffee table books. Europe. Architecture. History.
I pulled out one—Rome Through My Lens.
The pages were stunning. Arched doorways, crumbling columns, golden light spilling over cobblestones.
I remembered walking hand in hand with Marcello, the bells chiming in the distance, stealing glances and kisses in hidden alleyways.
The memory hit like perfume on old fabric—familiar, intimate, and impossible to wash out.
I was lost in that memory when Mr. Gulati re-entered.
“Roxanne, Sahil—may I introduce…”
I didn’t hear the rest. I snapped the book shut, turned, and froze. My spine stiffened before my mind caught up. Like my body remembered him before I did.
The man who entered was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked custom-made for violence. Greying hair slicked back. Black eyes—cold, unreadable. His skin was olive-toned, but his origin was impossible to place. He looked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere.
Lorenzo.
He walked towards me with that same calm, calculated expression. Held out his hand.
“Lorenzo Marcellini.”
I swallowed. “Roxanne Talati.”
He took my hand and kissed the back of it. Lingering. Too long. I pulled away, plastering a smile that felt like glass. Cracked. Brittle. Ready to shatter.
What was he doing here? Marcello had told him to stay away.
Why was he in this office?
My thoughts spiralled. My heart thudded—hard, loud, stupid against my ribs. I could feel Sahil watching me, sensing the shift in my energy. Lorenzo’s eyes didn’t leave mine.
He knows. He’s here for something. Marcello… does he know?
I stood straighter, smiling wider. But inside, I was unravelling.
Mr. Gulati cleared his throat.
“There’s a small issue with the final payment. Sahil, come with me—we’ll tally it together.”
Sahil gave me a look as if asking: All ok?
I just nodded as assurance. I didn’t want him anywhere near Lorenzo.
Lorenzo stood by the window, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the skyline like he owned it. The room felt smaller now. Tighter. Like the walls were listening.
“You’ve done well,” he said, voice rough, less polished.
“This space… it breathes power. And the view is spectacular. I’ll admit, I was surprised Marcello was with a woman like you. But now I see it. There’s something in you.”
I wanted to laugh. And scream. And disappear.
Instead, I said:
“He wasn’t with me.”
Lie.
“We weren’t anything. He showed me around Italy. That’s all.”
The lie tasted like dirt in my mouth. Because I remembered the suite in China. His breath on my neck.
Lorenzo turned from the window, his eyes dragging over my body like a slow violation.
“Shame. I thought you’d make an unusual pair—a good one though. My wife was plump too. Had an ass worth grabbing.”
I felt my stomach knot. The air thickened. I wanted to vanish into the walls.
He was older than Marcello. Cruder. Less refined. But dangerous in a way that felt more unpredictable. He stepped closer.
“You’ve changed,” he said, voice gravelled and low. “More beautiful than the last time we met.”
His gaze dropped to my chest, lingered, then slid to my hips, almost undressing me with his eyes.
“Fuller,” he said, miming a crude gesture in the air.
“I bet they bounce real nice when you walk.”
I instinctively crossed my arms across my chest. Bile rose in my throat.
Why was I letting this man talk to me this way?
To hell with the final payment—I don’t give a fuck.
My mind screamed at me to run, but my body froze. Because that’s what fright does. It locks you in place. Makes you a statue in your own skin.
“You’re disgusting.”
He smirked. “I’ve been called worse. Usually by women who end up moaning my name.”
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate.
“You know what I like about you?” he said. “You look like you’d fight back. That makes the chase fun and worth it.”
I clenched my jaw and spat. “You’re fucking repulsive.”
“Repulsive?” he asked, amused. “That’s rich, coming from a woman who stayed married to a man she doesn’t love and fucked another she couldn’t keep.”
I flinched. The words sliced deeper than I expected.
How did he know about Vihaan?
He circled me like a predator, eyes never leaving.
“Lonely, aren’t you?” he said, grazing my arm. “Your husband’s gone. Marcello’s vanished. You must be starving for attention.”
I wasn’t starving. I was grieving. And grief makes you quiet. Makes you retreat into yourself. Makes you easy to misread. It reshapes the landscape of a person—an unravelling where love once lived.
But grief is a tidal wave. It recedes. And when it does, it leaves behind someone stronger. Not untouched or unscarred. But resilient. The imprint of loss remains, yes. But it becomes part of the architecture. And I was rebuilding. Quietly. Fiercely.
But he didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know anything.
“I’ve got plenty of attention. Just not interested in any from you,” I snapped back.
“Not yet,” he said. “But I’m persuasive.”
I turned to face him. “You’re delusional.”
And dangerous. But I wouldn’t let him see that.
He leaned in, voice dropping to a growl.
“Let’s be each other’s company. One night. No strings. No lies. Just skin and sweat.”
“Are you insane? I’d rather sleep in a grave.”
He laughed. “So dramatic.”
Then his tone shifted, darker.
“I want to see Marcello burn.”
My breath caught.
“I want everything that’s his. Starting with you.”
I stared at him.
“I told you I’m nothing. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Marcello and I, we were never real.”
He stepped closer.
“Ahh… but that’s where you’re wrong, amuri. I saw the way he looked at you in Florence and the way he held on to you in Rome.”
What? Was he there—at the auction?
Had he kept someone to follow me?
Shit. Isabella.
I swallowed. “He won’t.”
“You sure?”
I looked away. Because I wasn’t.
Marcello wouldn’t come for someone who hid the truth. Someone who betrayed him. Someone who cheated and lied. Someone he didn’t love.
But did I love him? Or just the idea of him? The allure. The danger. The excitement.
He chuckled. “I need something from Marcello.”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“Well, you see amuri, he’ll listen to you.”
“We’re not in touch.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” he growled.
I took out my phone and tossed it on the table.
“Go ahead. Check it.”
He stared at me, eyes gleaming.
“I like feisty bitches. The thrill in taming them is better.”
I felt my skin crawl. Like something vile had slithered under it.
“So you won’t mind me destroying him?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how. How do I answer something like that? When the question itself was a threat.
Of course, I didn’t want him to destroy what Marcello had built or ruin him. Of course, I cared for him. I still had unresolved feelings for him. And maybe he did too.
He stepped closer, voice low and venomous—grazing his filthy cigar hands across my jaw, then lips. Like he was branding me. Like he wanted to leave a mark.
“You know what I’d enjoy more than watching him bleed?”
He leaned in—licking his lips as his eyes locked on mine.
“Watching you beg. Watching those pretty lips tremble around my cock while you ask to be ruined.”
I stepped back, gasping, heart hammering, throat dry. Anger surged through my veins, and I gave him a hard slap across his scarred face. He barely flinched an inch. He pulled me closer, grabbing my ass, squeezing it hard with possession. My body froze—locked in place by disgust and fury.
“I’ll let that pass. You’ve got the kind of body that begs to be owned,” he said. “And I always take what I want.”
I shoved his hand away, turning back like I’d touched fire.
“You’re sick.”
He smiled. “I’m real.”
I felt his eyes on my back. Felt the heat of humiliation crawl up my neck. My palms were clammy. My stomach churned. I wanted to scream, to cry. To disappear. But I didn’t.
I walked out of that office like I’d been stripped bare. My heels clicking like gunshots on the marble. I didn’t wait for Sahil. I had to get out of there as fast as I could.
I reached Studio Rasa and exhaled a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. I sat at my desk and stared into nothingness. But my mind wasn’t blank—it was loud.
Lorenzo’s voice.
Marcello’s silence.
My own shame.
It echoed in my bones. In my breath. I didn’t know what was coming. But I knew one thing—I was ready to brace for the storm.