I never wanted this life to feel like a cage, but sometimes, looking back, I wonder if it always was. My name is Priya, and at 35, I thought I had it all figured out. Married to Rajesh for eight years now—he’s 37, a mid-level manager in a bustling IT firm in Hyderabad. Our little boy, Aarav, just turned three last month, all chubby cheeks and endless energy, the kind that makes you forget the exhaustion of motherhood. We live in a modest two-bedroom flat in Banjara Hills, nothing fancy, but it’s ours. Or at least, it felt like ours until Mr. Kapoor entered the picture.

Mr. Kapoor—Vikram Kapoor—is Rajesh’s boss, the 65-year-old CEO who’s built the company from a garage startup to a multi-crore empire. He’s the kind of man who commands rooms without raising his voice: silver hair slicked back, a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, and eyes that linger too long, like they’re appraising everything as property. I hated him from the first moment I saw him. There was something predatory in his smile, a hunger that made my skin crawl. But Rajesh worshipped the ground he walked on, always saying, “He’s a visionary, Priya. Without him, I’d still be coding in some back office.”

The Spark at the Party

It started at the office Diwali party last year, though I didn’t know it then. Rajesh had begged me to come— “It’s important for networking,” he’d said. I dressed up in a simple red saree, nothing too flashy, with Aarav in my arms most of the evening. The venue was a swanky hotel ballroom, all twinkling lights and thumping music. I was chatting with some wives when I felt it: eyes on me, heavy and insistent.

I turned, and there he was. Mr. Kapoor, standing across the room with a glass of scotch in hand, staring right at me. Not at Rajesh, who was hovering nearby like an eager puppy. At me. His gaze slid down my body slowly, deliberately, like he was memorizing every curve under the fabric. I shifted Aarav to my other hip and looked away, a knot forming in my stomach. Who does that? Especially to a woman holding her child?

He approached us later, clapping Rajesh on the back. “Fine family you’ve got here, Rajesh. Your wife is ... radiant.” His voice was smooth, oily, and his eyes met mine again, holding just a second too long. I forced a smile, murmuring a thank you, but inside, I wanted to slap that smug look off his face. Rajesh beamed, oblivious. “Thank you, sir. Priya’s the one who keeps everything together.”

From that night, things changed. Subtly at first. Rajesh started staying late at work— “Mr. Kapoor’s piling on the projects,” he’d say, coming home exhausted, collapsing into bed without so much as a kiss. I noticed the extra hours, the weekends swallowed by “urgent deliverables.” Rajesh thought it was a promotion in the works. I wondered if it was something else. Mr. Kapoor’s planning, maybe? Keeping my husband busy, wearing him down. I pushed the thought away, but it lingered, like a bad smell.

The Frequent Intrusions:

Then the visits started. Not unannounced, not at first. Mr. Kapoor would call Rajesh in the evening: “I’m in the area—mind if I drop by for a quick chat about the quarterlies?” Rajesh, thrilled, would scramble to tidy up, insisting I make chai or samosas. I’d plaster on a polite face, but every time that man stepped into our home, I felt violated.

He’d sit on our sofa, legs spread wide like he owned the place, chatting with Rajesh about work while his eyes flicked to me. Once, when I bent to serve the tea tray, I caught him staring at my blouse, the way the fabric stretched. I straightened quickly, cheeks burning, and excused myself to check on Aarav. Rajesh never noticed. “Sir’s so down-to-earth,” he’d say after Kapoor left. “Coming to our home like this—it’s a sign he values me.”