NOVEL WEB Chapter 3: A year ago, you made me your mistress...
6 years later, Prakash Medical Institute: Near Pragati Maidan, Central Delhi
7:35 AM - Dr. Rimsha Verjani enters through the sliding glass doors of Prakash Medical Institute, her white coat starched to perfection. The morning sun catches the subtle highlights in her dark waves, now cut to a practical shoulder length. Her ID card swipes through security with practiced efficiency.
"Good morning, Dr. Verjani." Kunesh's greeting carries his usual mix of respect and warmth.
She offers a small but genuine smile. "Good morning." The leather strap of her medical bag digs into her shoulder as she heads for the elevators.
Nurse Sana Khan appears at her side, charts pressed against her chest. "Early start today!"
"Morning rounds. How was night shift?"
"Pretty smooth until 204 spiked a fever at midnight."
The elevator arrives. Inside, Rimsha stands straight-backed, each movement calculated. She's built this professional shell piece by piece over the years, crafted it into something unbreakable.
"I'll start with 204," she says, hitting the button for pediatrics. Her voice carries the quiet authority she's earned in these first weeks of residency.
The residents' lounge hums with morning activity. Rimsha tucks her vibrating phone deeper into her coat pocket, her fingers lingering for a moment before returning to her patient files. The persistent buzzing matches the tension building at her temples.
Dr. Marjan Chanraveshar sweeps in, her presence seizing the room."
The familiar routine settles Rimsha's nerves. She focuses on the senior doctor's precise reporting style, her own pen moving steadily across her notepad. Until-
Buzz.
Her jaw clenches, but her voice remains steady as she presents her cases. "Room 204, Arjun Mehta, age six, admitted with fever and respiratory symptoms..."
"Dr. Verjani." The measured tone of Dr. Tawaar cuts through her report. "Your phone seems rather insistent this morning."
Heat creeps up her neck. "My apologies, sir. It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't." His words carry the weight of authority, though his expression remains neutral. "Continue with your assessment."
Across the room, Nurse Afra offers a sympathetic glance. The older woman's presence provides silent support, but Rimsha keeps her eyes fixed on her notes.
"As I was saying," she continues, her voice carrying that precise professional tone she's cultivated, "preliminary tests suggest upper respiratory infection. I've ordered-"
"Perhaps you should check that, Dr. Verjani." The department head's eyebrow arches slightly. "It seems rather urgent."
Rimsha's fingers curl around her pen. "It's not urgent, Dr. Chanraveshar. Just... persistent."
The unspoken tension thickens the air. Her colleagues have noticed the increased calls lately - the ones she keeps declining. The ones from him. The man who spent a year pretending to love her, all while hiding a wife and family. The betrayal still burns fresh after twelve months.
"Very well," her superior says, tone brisk but not unkind. "Let's move on to treatment plans."
Rimsha's thumb hovers over the "end call" button, her white coat brushing against the antiseptic-scented stairwell wall. The hospital's fluorescent lights cast stark shadows across her face.
"Rimsha?" His voice carries that same manipulative smoothness. "Are you still there?"
She straightens her spine, adjusting her stethoscope with practiced precision. "I have patients waiting."
"Just listen-"
"No." The word cuts like a scalpel. "A year ago, you made me your mistress without my knowledge. Now you want to talk?" A cynical laugh escapes her. "How efficient of you."
The stairwell door opens. Dr. Shail pauses, professional concern crossing his features. Her fingers tighten around the phone.
"I didn't mean to-" the voice continues.
"Goodbye." She ends the call with the same precision she uses for charting, tucking the phone into her coat pocket.
"Everything alright, Dr. Verjani?" The older doctor asks, maintaining a courteous distance.
"Of course." She adjusts her name badge, voice steady despite the tension in her shoulders. "Just consulting on a case."
"Dr. Tawaar needs you in 204," he says with a nod.
"Thank you." She moves past him, footsteps echoing in the sterile hallway. Another buzz from her phone makes her jaw clench. With quick, practiced movements, she switches it to airplane mode. She has rounds to complete, patients to see - actual responsibilities that matter.
Her fingers brush against the cool metal of her stethoscope, grounding her in the present. She was naive twice - first with Shayan's rejection six years ago, then with... No. Better to focus on her patients' charts than old wounds. At least here, in the structured routine of hospital rounds, everything made sense.
At the Vasant Hotel, South Delhi
Arshad Sivra rotated his bone china teacup with practiced precision, aligning the delicate handle at exactly forty-five degrees. The morning sun caught the polished silver service, casting elegant shadows across the pristine white tablecloth.
"The market projections look promising," Raj Verjani remarked, his voice carrying just enough warmth to mask the weight of unspoken history between them.
"Indeed." The older businessman's response matched the carefully measured tone. "The southeastern sector particularly."
Two tables over, a silver-haired man in an impeccably tailored suit paused mid-stride, his companion leaning in as they passed.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" The whisper carried just far enough. "Six years after that engagement disaster, and here sit the Sivra and Verjani patriarchs, discussing like old friends."
Raj's fingers tightened imperceptibly around his napkin, but his expression remained pleasant. "The infrastructure requirements for the new development-"
"Will need careful consideration," came the smooth interruption, both men pretending not to notice the whispers their breakfast meeting had sparked.
The hotel terrace buzzed with the quiet energy of power players and morning meetings, the Delhi skyline providing a fitting backdrop for their performance of restored alliances.
Meanwhile, in Prakash Medical Institute's pediatric ward, Rimsha's pen scratched against a patient chart, her handwriting precise and controlled.
"Dr. Verjani?" Nurse Afra's voice pulled her back to the present. "Room 312 is ready for rounds."
"Thank you, Nurse Mehra."