A Night of Secrets and Seduction
The Assamese expatriates in New Jersey were the crème de la crème of Assam, a close-knit community of professionals who had carved out a slice of the American dream. Tonight's soirée at Mr. Dutta's palatial mansion was a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie. The sprawling estate was bathed in a golden glow, with opulent crystal chandeliers casting a soft, enchanting light over the extravagantly decorated rooms. The polished marble floors gleamed, and the air was alive with the elegant hum of classical music, punctuated by laughter and the clinking of glasses.
Women draped in exquisite sarees and gowns that shimmered like a sea of jewels moving gracefully through the crowd. Their hair was styled to perfection, and their jewelry sparkled with every movement, adding an air of glamour and sophistication. They sipped on fine wine, exchanging whispers and laughter, their eyes sparkling with secrets and stories. The men, sharp in tailored suits, clustered in animated conversation, their discussions on politics and economy as fervent as any high-stakes boardroom meeting, punctuated by the smooth swirl of Scotch in crystal tumblers.
The party spilled out onto the expansive terrace, where the night air was fragrant with the scent of blooming jasmine and the stars above seemed close enough to touch. It was here, under the starlit sky, that Mr. Sarmah, a recent arrival from California, stood laughing heartily amidst a group of friends. The scene was a picture of effortless elegance and joy—until it wasn't.
In a heartbeat, the atmosphere shifted. Mr. Sarmah's laughter turned to a strangled gasp. He clutched his chest, his face contorting in pain, and then he collapsed, hitting the polished floor with a sickening thud. A wave of shock rippled through the guests. Women screamed, their hands flying to their mouths, while men rushed forward, their faces a mask of disbelief.
Mr. Dutta, the ever-gracious host, sprang into action. He knelt beside Mr. Sarmah, his fingers searching for a pulse as a hush fell over the crowd. Time seemed to stretch interminably. The chandeliers flickered, casting eerie shadows. The classical music, oblivious to the unfolding drama, continued its gentle serenade.
After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Dutta looked up, his face ashen, his voice a grave whisper that cut through the tension like a knife. "He's gone."
A Few Hours Before the Party
Mrs. Mohini Barua stood before her vanity, meticulously applying the finishing touches to her makeup. The reflection staring back at her was one of poise and perfection. Married to Rupam for the last fifteen years, they were both prominent professionals working on Wall Street. Mohini was a vision of elegance, her figure the envy of many women, and tonight she was determined to look her best. She knew Mr. Sarmah would be at the party, and she had old scores to settle.
Years ago in Assam, when she was an innocent middle-class girl, Mr. Sarmah had been her senior. One fateful night, while she was working alone in the computer lab, desperately trying to finish a programming assignment, Mr. Sarmah had attempted to molest her. She had managed to escape, running breathlessly back to her hostel. The shock of the incident left her traumatized, too timid to seek justice. In the conservative Assamese and Indian society, victims of sexual assault often found themselves blamed instead of the perpetrator. It was one person's word against another's, and Mohini had been too scared and ashamed to speak out. The incident haunted her for years, a dark shadow on her soul.
But now, things had changed. Mohini was no longer the docile and timid girl she once was. Today, she was a successful Wall Street banker, a woman of style and sophistication. Her past had forged her into a resilient and powerful force, and tonight, she intended to wield that power.
Tonight, she would transform into a femme fatale. As she slipped into a stunning black evening gown that accentuated her every curve, she felt a surge of confidence. Her eyes, lined with kohl, were dark and smoldering, a mirror to the fire burning within her. She fastened a pair of diamond earrings, their cold brilliance a stark contrast to the heat of her resolve.
Tonight, she was getting dressed for the kill. She would make Mr. Sarmah pay for what he had done all those years ago. The anticipation of the confrontation sent a thrill through her, sharpening her senses. As she slipped on her stilettos and gave herself one last approving glance in the mirror, she felt invincible.
With a final deep breath, Mohini walked out of the room, her heels clicking with determination on the polished floors. She joined her husband Rupam in their sleek black car, the engine purring as they set off for Mr. Dutta's party. As they drove through the city, the lights reflecting off the car's glossy surface, Rupam glanced at his wife and chuckled. "You look stunning, Mohini. You could literally kill the men with your looks tonight."
Mohini's eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as she turned to him, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Literally," she responded, her voice smooth and confident. The anticipation of the confrontation sent a thrill through her, sharpening her senses. The past had tormented her long enough. Tonight, she would face her tormentor and settle the score once and for all.
The Party
As the Baruas arrived at Mr. Dutta's grand mansion, the party was already in full swing. The estate was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the gentle strains of classical music. As Mohini and Rupam stepped through the ornate doors, all eyes turned towards them. Mohini, in her stunning black evening gown, immediately became the soul of the party. Although each lady looked gorgeous, it was Mohini who stole the show, her presence commanding attention and admiration.
Mohini gracefully moved through the crowd, her laughter and charm leaving a trail of admirers in her wake. She seemed to effortlessly float from one group to another, exchanging pleasantries and flashing her dazzling smile. However, when she spotted Mr. Sarmah across the room, her old anger bubbled up inside her. He was as obnoxious as he used to be, loud and boorish, oblivious to the disdain he provoked. But Mohini was determined not to show her fury. Instead, she masked her emotions with a serene smile.
Mr. Sarmah, noticing Mohini's approach, shifted uncomfortably. There was a flicker of unease in his eyes, a hint of the guilt he perhaps felt. Yet, Mohini greeted him as if she had completely forgotten the past, her demeanor warm and inviting. She subtly seduced him with her charm, engaging him in light banter, her laughter ringing like a melodious chime. Mr. Sarmah, despite his unease, was drawn in by her allure, unable to resist her.
As the evening progressed, Mohini saw her opportunity. With a coy smile and a whisper in his ear, she lured Mr. Sarmah out of the party and into the garden. The moonlight bathed the garden in a silvery glow, the air fragrant with the scent of jasmine. Leading him to a secluded spot, she turned to face him, her eyes dark and inviting. Mr. Sarmah, enthralled by her, moved closer, their faces inches apart.
In that moment, Mohini's lips met his in a lingering kiss. Unknown to him, her lipstick was laced with peanut butter oil, a carefully calculated weapon, she knew from her college days that Mr. Sarmah had a history of allergic reactions from peanut butter. She pulled back, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. "I should get back to the party," she said with a playful smile, leaving him breathless and dazed.
Mohini returned to the party, her heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and vindication. She mingled with the guests, her demeanor as radiant as ever, while a sense of anticipation simmered beneath her calm exterior. It wasn't long before the effects of the peanut allergy began to manifest. Mr. Sarmah, who had rejoined the party, suddenly turned pale, his breathing becoming labored. He staggered, clutching at his throat as panic spread through the room.
Women screamed, their faces contorted with horror, while men rushed to his aid. Mr. Dutta, the host, was the first to reach him. He knelt beside Mr. Sarmah, his fingers searching for a pulse. The room seemed to hold its breath as Mr. Dutta's face grew pale. He looked up, his voice heavy with the finality of the moment. "He's gone."
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