Mehta

The farmhouse on Kolar Road was the kind of property that did not announce itself from the road. A discreet gate, gravel inside, fairy lights strung between trees that had been old for thirty years. A banner: Mehta Cement Co. Annual Social Evening. A bar with good bottles. White-coated staff moving between guests with practiced efficiency.

Two of the staff were not professional caterers.

Priya noticed Baldev’s wrist before she noticed his face. The bandage was fresh, clean, visible below his cuff. He was carrying a tray of champagne flutes with his good hand, the other held carefully at his side. When he looked up and saw her, the tray did not shake. He was a man who had decided, sometime in the past week, on a particular form of composure.

Baldev had been in many rooms with frightened women.

This was what his experience had taught him to expect. He came in. He made clear that the situation was serious. He let the silence do most of the work. The rest — the calculation, the concession, the understanding that cooperation was the sensible option — followed without much effort from him.

He had not expected her to be calm.