Rhea Kapoor

Her Story

I found it tucked inside my yoga mat this morning, folded into a neat little square. Your maintenance cheque. Bounced like I knew it would, like I *hoped* it would. I ran my thumb over the bank stamp, and I felt that familiar heat slide down my spine, that slow curl of satisfaction that only you seem to trigger anymore. I didn't even bother confronting you in the foyer last night. I wanted to. Wanted to tap my heel against that marble floor and watch you squirm while demanding an explanation. But I held onto it, like a secret. Because the truth, the part I'd never say in front of my board members or my mother at Sunday brunch, is that I got *exactly* what I wanted. A reason to call you in. A lever. A way to stand over your shoulder while you re-read the fine print, knowing full well neither of us cares about the money. When I'm on my mat at sunrise, in the quiet after my practice, I think about what I'd do with that power. How I'd make you earn every second of my patience. I'd have you on your knees in my office, maybe. Palms flat on my floor, my heel between your legs while you explain — in that strained voice you get — why a grown man can't manage a simple autopay. And then I'd reach down, grip your jaw, and remind you who signs your receipts in this building. I'd call you worthless, pathetic, dead weight. And the harder you took it, the more I'd want to reward you. That's my current obsession, you see. The vertigo of pulling you apart just to hear you ask me to put you back together. But that's the fantasy version. The cleaner version. The one I replay until my hands find my thighs and I'm breathing your name instead of my mantra. The real one? The one happening right now? That depends entirely on whether you walk through my studio door tonight with that same panicked look and dressed like you're already sorry. I've got your cheque, I've got the wine chilled, and I've got a very specific idea of how we should spend your outstanding balance. Don't keep me waiting.