The soft click of the door closing behind her was the only sound in the room, and for a moment, Kashish simply stood there, staring at the floor, her fingers still trembling at her sides.

She had rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—how her father would smile, how he would pull her into a long-awaited embrace, how his voice would crack with emotion at the sight of his daughter after three years. She had imagined the warmth of his presence, the familiar comfort of being seen and loved. Instead, she had met only silence.

And silence could wound deeper than words ever could.

As the realization settled in her bones, Kashish finally moved. Her steps were slow, mechanical, as she crossed the room and sank to the edge of her bed. The pallu slipped from her head once again, but she made no effort to fix it. Her hands rested limply in her lap as her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor.

A small sound escaped her throat—half sob, half breath—and then the dam broke.

Tears spilled down her cheeks in quiet, unrelenting waves. She did not wail or scream. She had grown too used to swallowing her pain to give it voice. But her shoulders shook, her breaths came in ragged gasps, and the ache inside her chest expanded until it felt like she might shatter.

She clutched the edge of the bedsheet as if it were the only thing anchoring her to the world. “Why, Papa?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you even look at me properly?”
A sob wracked her frame.
“Have I changed so much? Or… is this just who I am now in your eyes?”

She thought of the little girl who had once been the center of her father’s world. She remembered his laugh as he twirled her in the courtyard, the softness in his eyes when he’d braided her hair before school, the bedtime stories beneath the neem tree. All of it seemed so distant now, like memories from someone else’s life.

Now, all he saw was a woman who didn’t fix her saree fast enough. A woman who stood wrong, arrived breathless, broke rules she hadn't even been reminded of.

Kashish pressed her palms to her face, trying to silence her cries. But grief, when quiet, is often the loudest of all.

A knock at the door jolted her.

“Bahu Rani?” came a voice from the other side. “Come downstairs. Malkin is calling you.”

She wiped her tears hastily on the edge of her pallu, sniffed, and composed herself with the urgency of someone who had learned that pain is not a luxury afforded to daughters-in-law. She rose, straightened her saree, tucked the pallu back over her head, and walked out.

Downstairs, the drawing room had returned to its usual hush, the remnants of the earlier visit now erased—no laughter, no father, just the faint fragrance of tea and the lingering tension.

Malini Devi sat on the divan, straight-backed, poised as always. A string of pearls nestled at her throat, her expression polished to perfection. She did not look up immediately when Kashish entered.

“You took your time,” she said, eyes still fixed on the embroidery in her lap.

“I… I was in my room,” Kashish said softly.

Malini finally looked up, her gaze sharp, unblinking. “Crying?”

Kashish lowered her eyes.

Malini set aside her embroidery. “Sit.”

Kashish obeyed, perching at the edge of the seat across from her, trying to keep her breathing steady.

There was a long pause, then Malini spoke. “What happened earlier… was unfortunate. But it was also avoidable.”

Kashish remained silent.

“A woman in this house represents not just herself, but her upbringing, her values—and her family’s honour,” Malini continued. “Your father did not come here to see a hurried, disheveled girl rushing down the stairs like a servant. He came expecting grace. Dignity.”

Her voice was not harsh, but it had the cool firmness of someone who had been groomed in a world where appearances mattered more than truth.

“You are a married woman now. And as such, there are expectations. A proper appearance. Proper composure. When elders speak, you listen. When they arrive, you welcome them with calm, not with panting breath and a flying pallu.”

Kashish’s fists clenched in her lap, but she said nothing.

“I know this marriage has been… an adjustment for you,” Malini said, more gently now. “But you must learn. Quickly. Because people are watching. Your family. Your in-laws. And now, the Goyenkas.”

At that, Kashish looked up, confusion flickering in her tear-rimmed eyes. “What do the Goyenkas have to do with me?”

Malini’s lips curved in a small, measured smile. “Everything, Kashish. The Goyenkas are old friends of this family. They notice everything. And your father knows it. That is why he was… reserved. Disappointed, perhaps. But not without reason.”

Kashish’s throat tightened.

“But there is time,” Malini added. “To correct these little things. To learn. To grow into your role here. You still have much to offer—if you are willing to shed the old version of yourself.”

The words hung in the air like a sentence.

Kashish nodded slowly, though a storm churned quietly behind her eyes.

Malini rose with grace, placing a hand briefly on Kashish’s shoulder.

“Compose yourself. Dinner is in an hour. And remember—next time, let your father see the daughter he can be proud of.”

With that, she walked away.

Kashish sat still, her eyes dry now, but her heart quietly bleeding in places no one could see.

In the far wing of the Chandravanshi estate, away from the polished marble floors and manicured gardens, there was a room that stayed mostly closed. It didn’t have the warmth of the other chambers—no golden drapes or sandalwood-scented lamps. Just grey walls, a rusted latch, and a single window that let in little more than shadows.

Inside, in one corner of the room, sat a girl—knees to her chest, her head buried in trembling arms.

Her name was Shree.

She was seventeen—though life had aged her faster. The weight of lost years clung to her bones like iron chains. Her bare feet were scraped from running, her voice hoarse from screams long swallowed.

She did not know how she had ended up here—only that one night she was in the dark alley of Shiv Gali, locked in a backroom of the brothel, and the next morning, someone came. A man. Calm. Powerful. With eyes that didn’t leer.

Taniskh Chandravanshi.

The name meant little to her then, but the way the others had reacted told her all she needed to know. He wasn’t like the other men. He didn’t bargain. He didn’t smile. He just looked at the madam with something sharp in his gaze—and she had crumbled. Within an hour, Shree was his. No one explained anything.

She hadn't seen Taniskh since the day he brought her. 

Her body flinched at every knock. Every footstep outside the door made her heart spike. He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t said a word. But the not-knowing was worse.

Because what if he did?

What if tonight was the night?

Shree buried her face deeper into her arms, her shoulders shaking. Her sobs were silent—practiced. She had learned long ago that sound brought attention, and attention brought pain.

Why did hebrough me?
Is he waiting for something?

Her thoughts swirled in dark circles, feeding her fear. She tried to remember her mother’s lullabies—faint, broken things from when she still believed someone would come back for her. But even those memories felt stolen now, smudged by the hands that had held her down, years ago, in that godforsaken brothel.

A soft knock.

Shree jerked up, her back pressed to the wall like a hunted animal. Her breathing quickened.

The door creaked open—slow, deliberate.

—

Sneak peek- Chapter 6

“Sleep on the bed,” he said, without looking at her. “You don’t have to sit like that.”

His tone held no edge. No threat. Just exhaustion, as if speaking at all cost him something.

Shree didn’t respond.