Wrong House Romance Episode 1

Chapter 1: The Serif and the Scaredy-Cat
If Chennai had a heartbeat, T. Nagar was the place where it went into atrial fibrillation.
It was three o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and the world outside the third-floor windows of ‘Prism & Pixel Strategies’ was a riot of commerce and chaos. Below, on Ranganathan Street, a sea of humanity flowed between textile showrooms and gold emporiums, bargaining over silk sarees with the ferocity of gladiators. Auto-rickshaws buzzed like angry yellow hornets, weaving through traffic with a complete disregard for physics or mortality.
Inside the glass-walled fishbowl of Conference Room B, however, the only war being fought was over typography.
"It’s aggressive, Vishal," Nandini Shetty said, pinching the bridge of her nose. She spun her ergonomic chair around, the wheels squeaking in protest against the linoleum. "You can’t use Impact font for a holistic wellness brand. It looks like we’re screaming at them to relax. It’s like holding a gun to someone’s head and whispering ‘Namaste’."
Vishal Rao, currently slumped in a posture that would make a chiropractor weep, didn't look up from his MacBook. His fingers flew across the keyboard, a blur of motion. He was wearing a checkered shirt buttoned all the way to the collar—a habit he hadn't shaken in eight years of city life—and his glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose.
"It’s not Impact, Nandu. It’s Bebas Neue," Vishal corrected, his voice calm, providing the perfect counterbalance to Nandini’s rising hysteria. "And it conveys strength. Stability. We are selling Ayurvedic immunity boosters, not lullabies. The client wants 'Bold.' This is bold."
"It’s bullying," Nandini countered, grabbing her stylus and stabbing the air for emphasis. "The tagline is 'Find Your Inner Peace.' If I read that in Bebas Neue, my inner peace packs its bags and moves to Switzerland. Change it to Montserrat. Light weight."
"Fine," Vishal sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand compromised artistic visions. He hit a few keys. The projection on the screen shifted. "Happy?"
Nandini squinted at the screen, tilting her head. "Make it semi-bold."
"I hate you."
"You love me. I’m the only reason you have a social life."
"I have a social life," Vishal mumbled, adjusting the kerning. "I speak to the Swiggy delivery guy every night. We have a rapport. He knows not to ring the doorbell because it startles me."
Nandini let out a bark of laughter, a loud, uninhibited sound that made the junior intern outside the glass walls jump. That was the thing about Nandini Shetty. She took up space. She was vibrant, loud, and unapologetic, usually dressed in kurtas that clashed with the office carpet, her curly hair existing in a permanent state of rebellion.
Vishal was the negative space to her splash of color. He was the quiet hum of the server room; she was the pop song playing on the radio. They shouldn't have made sense as a duo. Nandini was from Mangalore, raised on fish curry and coastal humidity, with a family that communicated primarily through shouting matches and aggressive feeding. Vishal was from the dry, dusty heartland of Rayalaseema, born into a silence that was usually a prelude to violence.
And yet, here they were. The "Dynamic Duo" of Prism & Pixel. The Art Director and the Copywriter. The Strategist and the scribe.
"Okay, deck is frozen," Vishal announced, closing his laptop with a decisive snap. "If the client hates it, I’m blaming you. I’ll tell them the font choice was a result of your spiritual turbulence."
"Deal," Nandini checked her watch. "We have twenty minutes before the meeting. I need caffeine. And I need you to eat something that isn't air and anxiety."
"I had a puff," Vishal protested as they stood up.
"You had the crust of a puff, Vishal. You picked out the potato filling because you said it looked 'suspicious.' You have the survival instincts of a panda. Come on."
The office pantry was the unofficial town square of the agency. It smelled permanently of burnt coffee, microwaved tupperware lunches, and corporate despair.
As Nandini marched in, dragging a reluctant Vishal in her wake, the usual suspects were gathered around the coffee machine. Suresh, the lead graphic designer who wore scarves in 35-degree weather for ‘the aesthetic,’ and Priya, the HR manager who knew everyone’s secrets.
"Ah, the power couple arrives," Suresh grinned, leaning against the counter. "How’s the immunity pitch? Did you guys decide on a font, or did you just argue until one of you passed out?"
"We compromised," Nandini said, reaching for the filter coffee pot. "I won, and Vishal agreed that I won."
"Standard procedure," Vishal muttered, leaning against the fridge. He looked tired. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent today, distinct bruises against his pale skin.
Priya looked between them, her eyes narrowing with a familiar, teasing glint. "You know, my sister is getting married next month. She needs a photographer. I was thinking of asking you two for a recommendation since you’re basically rehearsing for a marriage."
"We are not a couple," Nandini and Vishal said in perfect unison.
The synchronization was so precise, so practiced, that it only made Suresh laugh harder.
"It’s scary," Suresh said, pointing his mug at them. "You breathe in sync. You order lunch for each other without asking. Last week, I saw Nandini fix Vishal’s collar while he was on a call, and he didn't even flinch. That is intimate, guys."
"It’s called efficiency," Nandini said, pouring steaming coffee into two mugs—one black with two sugars (hers), one with extra milk and half a sugar (Vishal’s). She handed the milky one to him without looking. "And I fixed his collar because he looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. I am protecting the company’s brand image."
"And I am protecting my sanity," Vishal added, blowing on his coffee. "Nandini is too loud for me. I need peace. I need silence. Dating Nandini would be like dating a fire alarm."
"Excuse me?" Nandini swatted his arm. "I am a delight. I am the spice of life. You’re just boring. You want a girl who whispers and embroiders handkerchiefs."
"I want a girl who doesn't threaten to staple my forehead when I use the wrong hex code," Vishal retorted.
"Trauma bonding," Nandini declared to the room. "We survived the hostels of MCC. St. Thomas and Martin’s Hall. Adjacent buildings. We shared a wall and a hatred for the mess food. That bond is stronger than romance. It’s forged in indigestion."
The office banter flowed easily, a comfortable rhythm they had perfected over three years at the firm. But beneath the jokes, Nandini watched Vishal.
He was jittery today. More than usual.
Usually, Vishal’s anxiety was a low-level hum, a background noise like the office AC. Today, it was a vibration. He kept checking his phone. Every time it buzzed, his hand shot to his pocket, his knuckles turning white.
She waited until they were walking back to their desks, the hallway empty.
"Okay," she said softly, dropping the performative loudness. "Spill."
Vishal blinked, looking at her. "What?"
"You’ve checked your phone twelve times in the last ten minutes. You didn't finish your coffee. And you’re walking on the balls of your feet like you’re ready to sprint." She stopped, blocking his path. "Is it Aravind?"
Vishal stopped. He looked down at his shoes—scuffed Converse that Nandini had forced him to buy because his formal shoes were ‘depressing.’
"He called this morning," Vishal admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Before work."
Nandini’s face softened. She knew about Aravind. Not everything—Vishal was notoriously tight-lipped about the grim details of his life in Kurnool—but she knew enough. She knew Aravind was the older brother who acted more like a father and a prison warden combined. She knew there was a "land issue" that had been dragging on for a decade. She knew that Vishal had been sent to Chennai at eighteen with a one-way ticket and strict instructions never to return.
"Is he okay?" she asked.
"He’s... paranoid," Vishal ran a hand through his hair, messing up the gel he’d applied that morning. "The dispute with the neighbors is flaring up again. Apparently, they tried to bribe the local surveyor. Aravind went to the panchayat office and caused a scene."
"Classic Aravind," Nandini said, trying to keep it light. "Did he threaten to hit someone with a file folder?"
"He threatened to burn the office down," Vishal corrected grimly. "And now he’s convinced they’re going to retaliate. He told me to stay indoors. He asked me if I’ve noticed anyone following me."
Nandini felt a chill that had nothing to do with the office air conditioning. "And? Have you?"
"No! Of course not," Vishal laughed, but it was a brittle, cracking sound. "I’m a copywriter in T. Nagar, Nandu. Who’s going to follow me? The only people chasing me are credit card salesmen."
"So, tell him that," Nandini said reasonably. "Tell him you’re safe. You’re hundreds of kilometers away. The Bad Men from Rayalaseema aren't going to drive ten hours just to kidnap a guy who writes slogans for herbal tea."
"I did tell him. He just... he sounds tired, Nandu. He sounds like he’s at the end of his rope." Vishal looked up, his dark eyes filled with a helplessness that broke Nandini’s heart. "He sacrificed everything for me. He stayed back in that dustbowl to fight so I could sit here in the AC and argue about fonts. I feel guilty. Every single day, I feel guilty."
Nandini reached out and grabbed his hand. She squeezed it hard. It was a grounding technique they had developed during finals week in college.
"Stop it," she ordered. "Guilt is a useless emotion. You are honoring his sacrifice by living a good life. That’s the deal. He fights the orcs; you live in the Shire. If you go back there, or if you let the worry eat you up, the bad guys win."
Vishal looked at their joined hands, then up at her face. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction.
"The Shire," he repeated, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Am I Frodo in this analogy?"
" obviously. You’re short and you whine a lot."
"I am taller than you!"
"Physically, yes. Spiritually, you are a hobbit." She let go of his hand. "Now, put your phone on silent. We have a pitch to crush. And afterwards, I am buying you the greasiest, spiciest dosa in Chennai to burn that guilt right out of your system."
"I can't do spicy, Nandu. I get acid reflux."
"Then you will suffer for your art. Come on."
The meeting with the client was a blur of buzzwords. Synergy. Holistic. Organic Reach. Brand resonance.
Vishal went into autopilot. This was his superpower. He could switch off the anxious, hunted boy from Kurnool and become Vishal Rao, Senior Copywriter, a man who could sell ice to an Eskimo by convincing him it was "vintage water."
He pitched the campaign with a quiet confidence, weaving a story about heritage and modern health. Nandini watched him from the side, beaming like a proud mother hen. She handled the strategy questions, the budget negotiations, and the timeline, her sharp mind cutting through the client's hesitation like a knife through butter.
They were a machine. A perfect, well-oiled unit.
By the time the clients left, shaking hands and promising a contract by Monday, the sun had set over Chennai. The office was emptying out. The cleaning staff were starting to vacuum the carpets, the drone of the machines signaling the end of the work week.
"We killed it," Nandini said, packing her bag. "I saw the marketing head tearing up during your monologue about 'grandmother’s turmeric.' You are a manipulative genius, V."
"It’s called storytelling," Vishal said, loosening his tie. He felt drained. The adrenaline of the pitch was fading, leaving behind the residue of the morning's phone call.
His phone buzzed on the desk.
He stared at it. Anna. Again.
Nandini noticed his hesitation. "Answer it. I’ll wait for you downstairs. I’ll book the cab."
"No," Vishal said quickly. "You go ahead. I... I might take a while. He’s going to want to talk about the court dates."
"V, it’s Friday night. Don't sit here alone in the dark listening to legal woes."
"I’m fine, Nandu. Really. Go. I’ll meet you at the dosa place? Saravana Bhavan near the station?"
Nandini studied him. She didn't like leaving him when he was in this mood. But she also knew that when Aravind was involved, Vishal needed space. He needed to code-switch back to the submissive, terrified younger brother, and he hated doing that in front of her.
"Okay," she relented. "But if you’re not there in thirty minutes, I’m ordering the Ghee Roast and eating it without you."
"Twenty minutes. I promise."
She squeezed his shoulder once, grabbed her tote bag, and walked out.
Vishal waited until the glass door clicked shut. He waited until he saw her figure disappear down the hallway.
Then, he picked up the phone. His hand was trembling again.
"Hello?"
"Why didn't you pick up the first time?" Aravind’s voice wasn't angry; it was cold. Dead. It was the voice of a man who was holding a gun.
"I was in a meeting, Anna. A pitch. It went well. We got the account."
"I don't care about the account," Aravind snapped. "Did you listen to me? Did you stay inside?"
"Yes. I’m in the office. I haven't left."
"Good. Listen to me carefully, Chinna. The situation has changed."
Vishal sank into his office chair. The room was dark now, illuminated only by the streetlights filtering in from outside. "Changed how?"
"They know," Aravind said. "Pedda Reddy knows about the warehouse shipment. He stopped it. He has bought the police. The circle is closing."
"What does that mean for me?" Vishal whispered.
"It means you are no longer safe just because you are far away," Aravind said. "I have heard... whispers. They are looking for leverage. They know I won't sign the land over for money. They know I won't sign it for threats against me."
"So they..." Vishal’s throat went dry.
"They might come for you," Aravind said the words that Vishal had been dreading for eight years. "I am sending someone to get you. Tonight. A private security detail. They will take you to a safe house in Bangalore until the election is over."
"Bangalore? Anna, I have a job! I can't just leave!"
"You will leave, or you will die!" Aravind roared. The sound distorted over the phone line. "Do you understand? This is not a game anymore! Pack a bag. Go to your apartment. Lock the door. My men will be there in two hours. Do not open the door for anyone else. Not the milkman, not the landlord, and definitely not any friends."
"But Nandini..." Vishal started.
"Forget the girl!" Aravind cut him off. "This has nothing to do with her. If you involve her, you put a target on her back too. Do you want that? Do you want her blood on your hands?"
Vishal squeezed his eyes shut. "No."
"Then do exactly as I say. Go home. Alone. Lock the door. Wait."
The call ended.
Vishal sat in the silence of the empty office. The hum of the refrigerator in the pantry seemed deafening.
He felt sick. He had to run. He had to leave his life, his job, his world—again. Just like when he was eighteen.
He stood up, his legs shaky. He grabbed his bag. He needed to get to his apartment. He needed to disappear before Nandini realized he wasn't coming to dinner.
He walked to the window and looked down at the street. T. Nagar was still bustling, a river of lights and noise. It looked so normal. So safe.
But as he watched, he saw a black Scorpio parked illegally near the entrance of his building. Its engine was running. Its windows were tinted so dark they looked like holes in the reality of the night.
Paranoia, he told himself. Just paranoia. It’s T. Nagar. People double-park all the time.
He took a deep breath, straightened his checkered shirt, and walked out of the office, leaving the lights off. He didn't know it yet, but he wouldn't be coming back to turn them on Monday morning.
He took the elevator down, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Don't involve Nandini. Keep her safe. Go home alone.
He stepped out of the building into the humid night air. He turned left, away from the Saravana Bhavan where his best friend was waiting for him. He started walking toward his apartment, his head down, walking fast.
He didn't notice the black car pulling away from the curb, its headlights off, sliding into the traffic behind him like a shark entering a school of fish.