I lay curled up on the living room sofa after dinner, absently switching channels on the television.
The soft glow of the screen flickered across the dim room as one noisy program after another flashed by - a soap opera dialogue, a news debate full of shouting anchors, a music channel playing an old Bollywood song.
None of it held my attention for more than a few seconds.
It had been a long day.
The "look session" at the studio had turned out to be far more exhausting than I had imagined.
What I had expected to be a simple round of photographs had turned into hours of costume changes, makeup adjustments, lighting tests, and endless posing while the director and stylist discussed details.
The studio makeup room had looked like something out of another world.
Rows of mirrors framed with bright bulbs had lined the walls, reflecting the room again and again until it had felt like I was surrounded by dozens of identical versions of myself. Tables were cluttered with brushes, palettes, curling irons, sprays, and things whose purpose I couldn't even guess.
Three people had moved around me.
One of them worked on my hair.
Another worked on my face with professional concentration.
And the other helped me with the outfits.
The first outfit had been a pale blue chiffon dress.
The fabric had settled around my body like cool water.
The dress hugged my waist and fell loosely down my legs.
But wearing it had not felt as strange as it once had.
They had placed small pearl earrings in my ears and adjusted my hair so it fell softly around my shoulders.
And the photographer had clicked with instructions.
"Stand there."
"Turn slightly."
"Lift your chin."
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Observing all this was the director of the movie, Kiran Mehta.
The second outfit had been a sleek black fitted dress paired with high heels.
The extra height had changed the way my body balanced. My hips shifted slightly without me even thinking about it.
The stylist had added a thin silver belt around my waist and large dangling earrings.
"Now walk toward the camera," the director had said.
I walked.
The heels clicked sharply against the floor.
There was something oddly... powerful about the sound.
The fitted dress had shaped my body in a way that made my waist look slimmer and my hips fuller.
For a brief second I had caught my reflection in one of the mirrors.
I had looked...
confident.
The next outfit had been traditional.
A deep red lehenga with a cropped blouse and a light dupatta draped across one shoulder.
Two assistants had helped arrange the heavy skirt around me.
Bangles had slid onto my wrists.
A delicate necklace lay against my collarbone, the pendant resting neatly in the V of my cleavage above the blouse.
Hair adjusted.
Lipstick changed.
Eyes darkened slightly with liner.
When I had stepped onto the set again, someone actually clapped softly.
"Wow."
The fabric was rich and heavy. The bangles chimed softly whenever I moved my hands. The dupatta brushed lightly against my arm.
It hadn't been unpleasant.
In fact...
I had moved slightly, adjusting the fall of the dupatta without even thinking about it.
The photographer's eyes had little up.
"Yes! Like that."
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
The director, Kiran Mehta, had worn a beaming smile on his face.
By the fourth outfit I had stopped resisting the process.
They had given me a casual modern look - ripped jeans, a short jacket, and a crop top.
The stylist had styled my hair into loose waves.
"Relax," the photographer had said. "Just lean against the chair."
I did.
He had asked me to try several poses - fingers on my chin, head thrown back, and many more.
I had remembered the poses models struck in glossy magazine photographs and copied them all.
The lights had flashed again. And again
Somewhere in the middle of all this I had realized something.
I had been no longer constantly thinking of this as women's clothing.
I had been simply wearing... clothes.
They adjusted them.
Added accessories.
Changed the look.
And I had followed along easily.
Too easily.
By the time the session had finally ended, I had worn seven completely different outfits and enough jewelry to stock a small shop.
The director had walked toward me, looking pleased.
"Very good," he had said. "I liked what I saw. Finalized some looks. You're extremely comfortable in front of the camera. Can't wait to begin shooting the film."
I had forced a polite smile.
If he only knew.
A few minutes later I had stepped out of the studio building into the afternoon sunlight.
The air had felt warm after the artificial cold inside.
I had slid my sunglasses onto my face and walked toward the car.
As I had opened the door, my reflection briefly appeared in the tinted glass.
I had paused for a second.
Zahir's words had returned to my mind.
You are playing her so well.
Too well.
I had slid into the car and shut the door.
The strange thing was...
I hadn't felt like I was playing her at all.
----
Now, lying on the sofa, my body still felt sore - a dull, unfamiliar ache in my shoulders, my neck, even my lower back.
So this is what actresses go through, I thought wearily.
I changed the channel again.
Some late-night comedy show appeared on the screen. A studio audience burst into loud canned laughter.
I muted the TV.
The apartment felt strangely quiet.
The servants had already retired to their quarters for the night. Outside, the city had settled into its slower nocturnal rhythm - the occasional distant horn, the hum of traffic drifting faintly upward from the road below.
I stretched lazily and sank deeper into the sofa cushions.
Just as my eyes began to close, my phone started ringing.
The sound cut sharply through the quiet room.
For a moment I didn't move, assuming it would stop.
But it kept ringing.
Insistently.
I frowned and sat up slowly, my body protesting the movement.
Where had I kept the phone?
The ringing continued.
I glanced toward the coffee table.
Not there.
Maybe the side table near the window.
Not there too.
The sound seemed oddly muffled, as if coming from somewhere nearby but hidden.
The ringing finally stopped.
I shrugged slightly and lay back again, too tired to bother searching for it.
A few seconds later the phone began ringing again.
This time I sighed in irritation and pushed myself up from the sofa.
"All right, all right," I muttered.
The sound was muffled but from somewhere nearby.
I looked around the room again.
Then I noticed it.
My purse.
It was lying on the floor near the window, probably having slid from the side table.
And it was vibrating slightly.
I walked over, still feeling mildly annoyed, and picked it up. As I opened the purse and pulled out the phone, the ringing abruptly stopped.
The screen lit up briefly before going dark again.
I looked at it.
A missed WhatsApp call.
From an unknown number.
For a moment I simply stared at the screen.
A small knot of unease tightened in my stomach.
Unknown numbers rarely meant anything good in my life these days.
My mind went instantly to one possibility.
Bhai.
Or his men.
The thought sent a faint chill through me.
Had they somehow tracked me down?
I kept staring at the phone, waiting.
Expecting it to ring again.
It didn't.
Should I call the number back?
No, that could be risky. I decided against it. Whoever it was would call if he really needed to talk to me.
The apartment remained silent except for the muted television flickering quietly in the background.
After a few seconds I exhaled slowly and placed the phone back on the table.
Probably a wrong number, I told myself.
I switched off the television and sank back onto the sofa.
The exhaustion from the day settled over me again almost immediately.
My eyes felt heavy.
The quiet of the apartment wrapped around me like a blanket.
Somewhere between one slow breath and the next, sleep crept up on me.
And before I realized it, I had drifted off - curled up on the sofa, the phone silent on the table beside my purse.
-----
That's the end of Chapter 18. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Drop a like if you enjoyed reading it.
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> © Moon Winters, 2026. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The medical procedures, treatments, and concepts depicted in this work are purely fictional and should not be considered accurate, realistic, or medically valid. They are presented solely for n
arrative purposes and should not be interpreted as medical advice or real-world possibility.
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