Chapter 1 — The Notebook
Sana waited in the living room with the lights low. The air conditioner hummed. Outside, a scooter passed and the sound faded. She had the folder on the table in front of her. She had already gone through it twice. Photographs. Bank statements. Screenshots of messages. Hotel receipts with the same name appearing too many times.
She heard the car in the driveway. Keys in the lock. Sameer came in the way he always did—jacket half off, phone still in his hand, calling out that he was home as if the house needed the announcement.
He saw her sitting there and slowed.
“You’re still up.”
She didn’t answer. She just pushed the folder a few inches toward him.
He looked at it, then at her face. Something in his expression tightened, but he kept his voice light.
“What’s this?”
“You know what it is.”
He set his phone down, picked up the folder, and opened it. The first photo was of him and Aaliya at a restaurant two months ago. The next was from the hotel in Banjara Hills. Then the messages. Clear enough. Dates. Times. His own words.
He flipped through a few more pages and closed it.
“This is nothing.”
“Don’t.”
“Sana—”
“Don’t lie to me tonight.”
He stared at her for a second, then let out a short breath that was almost a laugh.
“You’re making a scene over nothing. Aaliya is… she’s young. She needed help with some things. I was being polite.”
Sana kept her eyes on him.
“Polite doesn’t look like that.”
He dropped the folder back on the table harder than he needed to.
“Fine. You want the truth? Yes. There’s something there. It started a few months ago. It doesn’t mean anything about us.”
“You told her you were going to marry her.”
His mouth opened, then closed. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I said things. People say things. It doesn’t mean—”
“You told her you wanted a second wife. You told her I would accept it eventually because that’s how it works.”
Sameer looked at her for a long moment. Then he sat down across from her, elbows on his knees.
“Listen to me. Islam allows a man four wives if he can treat them fairly. My Grand father has four wives.My father has two. He could have taken four. No one in our family called it a crime. I provide for this house. I provide for you. I provide for Imran. A man who does that has certain rights under the faith and under this roof.I will buy her anohter house. I’m not throwing you out. I’m not taking anything away from you. I’m adding something. That’s all.”
“Adding something.”
“Yes. Aaliya understands her place. You keep the house. You raise the boy. She stays in her own space. It can work.”
Sana’s voice stayed quiet.
“You hit me once before when I asked about the late nights.”
“That was different. You were shouting.”
“I’m not shouting now.”
He leaned forward.
“You’re sitting there with a folder like a lawyer. What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? Fine. I’m sorry you found out this way. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want what I want. I work. I earn. The money that keeps this house running comes from me. That means something.”
“It means you think you own everything in it.”
“I built it.”
“We built it.”
He shook his head.
“You managed the kitchen. You looked after the child. That’s important. I never said it wasn’t. But the decisions—the real ones—those are mine. A woman doesn’t need to sit in every meeting or count every rupee. That’s not how a household stays strong.”
Sana didn’t move.
“You used to say looking after a child wasn’t real work.”
“I never said that.”
“You did. More than once.”
He waved it away.
“Words. People say things when they’re tired. The point is simple. I provide. I lead. You take care of the home. That’s the arrangement that works. You’re making this into something ugly because you’re angry. Be angry. Fine. But don’t pretend the world is going to stop because you’re upset.”
He stood up and walked toward the bedroom door, then stopped and turned back.
“I’m not leaving you. I’m not changing anything for you and Imran. Aaliya will understand her place. You’ll understand yours. That’s all.”
Sana stayed seated.
“And if I don’t?”
He looked at her for a second too long.
“You will.”
Something in his face changed. The charm dropped. The impatience that usually stayed under the surface came up fast.
“Don’t push this, Sana. I’ve been patient. I’ve let you talk. But this conversation is finished.”
“It’s not.”
He crossed the room in three steps. She stood up as he reached her. His hand came up and struck the side of her face hard enough to turn her head. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. She caught herself against the edge of the table. Her cheek burned. She didn’t cry out.
Sameer stood over her, breathing harder now.
“I told you to stop. One more word and I will give you triple talaq right here. Three times. Finished. You will walk out of this house with nothing but the clothes on your back. Don’t test me.”
He looked her up and down.
“And cover yourself properly from tomorrow. That neckline is too open. The sleeves are too short. These dresses you wear are not modest. Wear a dupatta that actually covers your head when you leave this house. I will not have people talking about my wife dressing like she has no husband. A decent woman knows how to present herself. You don’t.
And I saw you talking to the watchman yesterday for almost five minutes. Smiling. What business do you have standing there chatting with him? A married woman does not stand in the gate talking to men for no reason. It looks cheap. It makes me look cheap. From tomorrow you will not speak to him at all unless it is about the gate or a parcel. Nothing else.”
Sana straightened slowly. For a moment her eyes filled. She blinked hard, once, and the tears stayed where they were. She touched the place where he had hit her, then let her hand fall.
“It’s alright.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“It’s alright.”
The words came out flat. No tears. No raised voice. Just those two words.
Sameer looked at her like he was waiting for the rest—the shouting, the accusations, the usual fight that would let him walk away feeling justified. Nothing came. She just stood there, eyes on him, face already starting to show the mark.
He stepped back.
“Good. We’re done talking about this.”
He went into the bedroom and closed the door. A minute later the light under the door went out.
Sana stayed where she was until the house was quiet again. She sat down on the edge of the sofa, put both hands over her face, and cried without sound for a full minute. When she lowered her hands the tears were gone. Her face was calm again. She stood, walked to the small desk in the corner of the living room, opened the bottom drawer, and took out the notebook she had bought three weeks earlier. She sat down, opened it to the first blank page, and wrote one line in careful handwriting:
Everything he thinks belongs to him.
She sat with the pen in her hand for a long time. Then she began the list.
Property
Money
Aaliya Khan
Reputation
Family
Son
Underneath that she wrote one more line and underlined it once.
What he thinks he can never lose.
She closed the notebook, put it back in the drawer, and locked it.
The next morning Sana moved while Sameer slept. She took the property papers from the drawer where he kept them—copies were cheap, originals were power. She made three sets. One went to a safe deposit box. One to her sister's house. One stayed with her.
At the bank she was polite, efficient. The joint account had both signatures; the savings account had been dormant in her name for years. She moved sixty percent to the new account, left forty to avoid flags. The clerk asked no questions. Married women moved money every day.
She called her cousin in Dubai before lunch. "I need a doctor," she said. "The kind who doesn't ask why. The kind who takes cash."
That evening she cooked biryani. Sameer commented on the cloves, the balance of spice. He did not notice the way she watched him eat, did not see her counting the bites until he was full and sleepy and vulnerable.
After he went to bed she opened the notebook again. Under Property she wrote: Secured. Three copies. Dubai contact made. Under Money: Moved. New account active.
Then she added a new name: Dr. Nadeem — discretion confirmed.
She closed the notebook and touched the bruise on her cheek, still yellow-green under her makeup. It pulsed, but she did not feel it as pain. She felt it as a deadline.
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