Abandoning his poor wife to become the son-in-law of a CEO, on his wedding night, when he lifted his new wife’s skirt, the man was stunned by the sight before him.
Arjun stood before the mirror, his hands trembling as he adjusted his custom-made sherwani from expensive kimkhwab, worth a year’s salary of an average worker. The mirror reflected the image of a handsome groom, his hair slicked back with oil, exuding the success of a young businessman. Outside the banquet hall, the melodious sounds of Indian classical music filled the air, crystal chandeliers shone brightly, and hundreds of high-society guests in splendid attire raised their glasses in boisterous toasts.

Today was the day Arjun married Kavya – the beloved daughter of real estate tycoon Malhotra, one of the richest men in Mumbai.

Arjun smirked, a sudden memory flashing back: the tearful eyes of his impoverished ex-wife, Priya, when he threw the divorce papers in her face three months ago. “I’m tired of coming home from work and being stuck in this cramped chawl. Priya, you’re a good person, but you can’t change my life. I need money, I need power.”

Priya didn’t yell, didn’t beg, she just silently signed the divorce papers and left with her worn-out suitcase in the Mumbai rain. At that moment, Arjun felt a huge weight lifted off his shoulders. And now, Arjun had won. This wedding was his ticket straight into the elite. His father-in-law had promised to promote him to Deputy Branch Manager right after the honeymoon.

The wedding night. The room in the million-dollar villa in Malabar Hill was decorated with scented candles and roses. Kavya sat on the bed, her bare shoulders draped in a delicate, deep red Banarasi silk nightgown, alluring. She was beautiful, a sharp, proud beauty.

Arjun drained his glass of wine to muster his courage. He rushed to embrace his precious wife. The scent of expensive perfume overwhelmed him, making him dizzy. Arjun’s trembling, greedy hands tried to remove the saree. In his mind, he pictured the flawless, smooth skin of a young lady raised in luxury.

But when the fabric was lifted past her waist, a horrifying sight met his eyes. He froze, his eyes wide, and he recoiled backward.

Kavya’s stomach – which should have been flat and smooth – was covered in deep, wrinkled stretch marks, the skin sagging and drooping. It resembled the marks of an overinflated balloon that had deflated many times.

“You… what happened to your stomach?” Arjun stammered.

In contrast to Arjun’s panic, Kavya showed no embarrassment. She calmly pulled the saree back over her stomach, reached for a cigarette on the bedside table, lit it, and took a long drag. The earlier shyness vanished, replaced by a sneering, contemptuous smile.

“What? Shocked? Thought you’d found a virgin?”

Arjun was speechless: “You… what do you mean by that?”

Kavya stood up, walked to the dressing table, and while reapplying her vermilion (sindoor) lipstick, calmly said, “Those are stretch marks from four pregnancies, you silly husband. Even plastic surgery in Mumbai or Delhi couldn’t fix them.”

“Four… four times?” Arjun’s ears buzzed.

“You didn’t ask, so why would I?” Kavya laughed loudly, her laughter cold and sharp. “You only care about my father being the Malhotra tycoon, how many mansions my family owns, how many crores (Indian currency) it is.”

Then Kavya approached, patting Arjun on the cheek: “Listen carefully. I’m a notoriously ‘free-spirited’ woman in Mumbai. My four children are from four different men, all prominent businessmen or politicians, but none of them want to marry me. My father needs an ambitious, low-born, money-hungry son-in-law to act as a ‘front,’ legitimizing the status of his four grandchildren. And you – Arjun – are the most promising candidate.”

Arjun was stunned. It turned out he wasn’t the “lucky one” he thought he was, but a pawn in this family’s game of honor. “I refuse! I’ll divorce! You fraud!” Arjun yelled, lunging towards the door.

But the doorknob wouldn’t open. The door was locked from the outside.

“It’s too late.” – Kavya sat down on the bed, crossing her legs authoritatively – “My father has bodyguards guarding you. Do you think it’s that easy to get into the Malhotra family? You’ve signed a marriage contract. If you leave, you’ll have to pay compensation that you couldn’t repay even if you worked your whole life. With my father’s influence, he’ll make it impossible for you to survive in any city in India.”

Arjun slid down onto the cold marble floor. The glamour, the dream of a better life, the deputy director position… everything crumbled.

“Your job is simple,” Kavya continued, her voice cold – “During the day, drive me and the children around, play the role of a model father and a happy husband in front of society. At night, sleep on the sofa. You’ll get a monthly allowance, but don’t expect to touch this family’s assets.”

Arjun sat alone in the opulent room, tears streaming down his face from humiliation.

In that moment, Arjun suddenly remembered Priya. Priya had been pregnant with his first child, but she couldn’t keep it because she worked too hard to support him through his studies. Priya’s belly had a few small stretch marks, but Arjun had scoffed at them. Priya had loved and cared for him with all her heart, yet he had cast her aside like a discarded object to chase after fleeting pleasures.

Now, Arjun was trapped in this gilded cage, a “fake father” to four strangers, a “fake husband” to a woman who despised him. The wedding music from downstairs sounded like a funeral dirge, bidding farewell to the last vestiges of self-respect of this greedy man. The door was closed. And Arjun’s life, it seemed, had ended in this luxurious yet tragic “under the cupboard.”