top of page
  • Writer's pictureRuchi Singh

The Trophy

Short Story

The twirling continues to the never-ending music and his infinite energy. He smiles perfunctorily, a smile which doesn’t reach his eyes. I have had a couple of glasses of wine, one more than what I usually take, just for him. My eyes take a sensuous-sheen when I relax, he had told me once.

But nothing matters now, knowing… knowing it’s just a formality for him, customary to dance with the hostess.

Knowing that the party will end, when the guests depart, the chandeliers switched off, the red dress taken off. And I will be left alone in the gilded palace, lonely on the four poster bed, cold silken sheets… listening to my own yearning breaths, aching.  My fingers tighten on his, to bind him to me, and never let him go. He flashes his handsome smile again, but the next second, glances at the figure near the pillar, towards the one who holds his heart, his devotion, his soul. I ache… oh, how I wish…

Bringing his gaze back to the live orchestra, he steers me around the periphery of the dance floor. The music ends and so does the dance. He leaves me alone with a respectful bow.

Me, the wife of the richest man in the country, the old man drinking by the bar; envied by thousands, ignored by him, perfect on the outside but broken inside.

Yet, I have lost my right to protest, the day I made the pact with him. This is my choice, my destiny… for it was I, who once rejected his love and coveted the golden cage. 

It was I, who chose to be a trophy… 


For the Picture Prompt by The Book Club

6 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


This flash fiction was written and first published on Tell-A-Tale during the Tornado Giveaway 2 by ‘The Book Club‘ She took a taxi from the airport to his office, a remote area near the oil-drilling s


bottom of page