I was at Oberoi Holdings, buried in the documents of yet another new project, sipping on a lukewarm cup of coffee. It was the seventh one today. My eyes burned from exhaustion—I hadn't slept since yesterday. Instead, I had locked myself in the basement to control my anger. That bastard had crossed the line this time. If I hadn't been there, things could have ended far worse.
A sharp knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Come in," I said, my tone as cold and emotionless as ever.
The door opened, and Ricky stepped inside.
"Boss, we've found all the evidence," he said, placing a file in front of me.
I took the file and flipped it open. The contents made my blood boil. How could someone step so low? My grip on the papers tightened until the edges crumpled.
"Keep eyes on everything. She must not be harmed—not at any cost. If she is, Ricky, I swear I'll stop your breathing in this world," I ordered, my voice cutting like a blade.
Ricky nodded quickly, though I could tell he was holding back a question.
"Ask," I said, not lifting my eyes from the documents as I resumed working.
"Boss... why don't you finish him now? You already have more than enough reason to kill him," Ricky asked cautiously.
A humorless chuckle escaped my lips. I leaned back in my chair, fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk.
"If I wanted him dead, Ricky, he would already be nothing but ash," I said, my voice low, darkened by memories I could never erase. My eyes clouded as the echoes of the past clawed their way back—the screams, the way everything was ripped from me while I stood powerless.
"Boss!" Ricky's voice broke through my haze.
"Yes?" I snapped back.
"You were zoning out," he said, not intimidated in the slightest. Most feared me, but to work by my side, fearlessness was a requirement. Ricky had proven he had it.
"Anyway," I said, brushing it off, "I'm not going to kill him. I might beat him within an inch of his life, but his death... his death will come from my pride."
My gaze shifted to the photo frame on my desk. She was in it, radiant in a soft pink lehenga. She looked cute yet breathtakingly beautiful. Every time I looked at her, I fell in love all over again.
"You may go now," I said without turning toward him.
Ricky bowed slightly and left the room.
Alone again, I whispered into the silence, "VK, your death is going to be painfully slow. And it's coming soon."
A storm was brewing. I could feel it. The truth was going to come out—and the sooner it did, the better.
The day had been long—far longer than I could endure on the little sleep I had managed the night before or maybe I haven't even for a moment. Two operations back-to-back, each lasting nearly four hours, had drained every bit of my energy. But they had been successful, and that was my only consolation. With heavy steps, I pushed open the door of my in-laws' house, hoping for at least a moment of peace.
Instead, the first thing I saw was Ma sitting in the living room. Beside her were two women: one older, dignified yet sharp-featured, and the other a girl, perhaps around my age. Their laughter echoed softly, filling the space with a lightness I hadn't been part of for days.
For a fleeting moment, my heart warmed at the sound—but as soon as Ma noticed me, her smile vanished, replaced by a stern, unreadable expression. The sudden change made my stomach twist. I swallowed hard, steadying myself.
"Namaste," I greeted politely, folding my hands together.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward me. None of them softened. In fact, the glance I received felt closer to disdain, as if my presence had disturbed something pleasant.
"This is my sister, Damini, and her daughter, Mihika," Ma said flatly.
I stepped forward, bending to touch Masi's feet as tradition demanded. But she didn't lift her hand in blessing. The rejection was small but piercing, like a needle sliding straight into my heart. Still, I forced a smile, unwilling to let the hurt show.
"Hi, I'm Mihika," the younger girl said, extending her hand. She was pretty, with neatly styled hair and a confident demeanor.
I took her hand, giving it a polite shake. "Hey, I'm Tara."
After that, the conversation between them resumed as if I wasn't there. I excused myself quickly, saying I would return after changing. They nodded, distracted.
Upstairs, I shed the formal clothes I had worn all day and stood under the shower, letting the warm water wash away the sweat and fatigue clinging to me. By the time I slipped into a simple cotton kurti, my body felt lighter, but my heart still carried the weight of unspoken emotions.
I tied my hair into a loose bun, pinned my dupatta neatly, and headed back downstairs. By now, I knew my place in the household well enough—straight to the kitchen. From the second day of my marriage, the responsibility of meals had fallen squarely on my shoulders.
The kitchen was quiet, filled only with the hum of the refrigerator and the faint clatter of utensils as I began working. I rolled up my sleeves and set to preparing dinner—simple, light dishes dal tadka simmered with cumin and ghee, jeera rice fragrant with roasted spices, paneer bhurji spiced just right, a quick aloo sabzi, and soft phulkas puffed fresh on the tawa. I arranged a little salad on the side, adding cucumber slices and onions with a sprinkle of chaat masala.
The movements had become second nature by now. Chop, stir, taste, serve. But my mind wandered, weighed down by memories of how drastically life had changed. Just a week ago, I had been cherished in my parents' house—pampered, shielded from responsibilities, never even expected to arrange my own things. A princess in my own right. And now, within days, I was a wife in a house where silence often spoke louder than words.
"Tara!" Ma's voice broke my thoughts.
I quickly washed my hands, dried them on my apron, and went to the living room.
"Apne bulaya, Ma?" (You called me, Ma?) I asked softly.
"In dono ke liye chai leke aao. Aur haan, Damini di jyaada meetha pasand nahi karti." (Bring tea for the two of them. And yes, Damini di doesn't like too much sugar.) Ma instructed, her eyes fixed elsewhere, never once meeting mine.
I lowered my head. "Theek hai." (Okay.) My voice was barely above a whisper.
Back in the kitchen, I prepared the tea carefully—one cup with less sugar, exactly as instructed—and carried it to them on a tray. They accepted it without so much as a glance in my direction. By 8 PM, dinner was ready. I laid everything on the table and served Ma, Masi, and Mihika. A little later, Papa returned, and I served him too.
As always, I stood by quietly, refilling bowls, passing rotis, ensuring plates were never empty. My place was no longer at the table, but beside it, serving. Only once everyone else finished would I eat my own meal.
Sometimes, the work itself doesn't exhaust me—it's the indifference that crushes me. Before marriage, Ma, Papa, even Vishal—my husband—had all been so different. Kind, affectionate, making me feel as though I truly belonged. But now... now it was as though that warmth had been erased, like it had never existed. Their words were polite in public, but at home, their behavior cut deeper than any knife.
I held myself together as best as I could. But every now and then, when no one was watching, I felt the tears burn at the edges of my eyes.
Dinner ended, but Vishal still hadn't returned. Perhaps another late meeting; perhaps something else. Who knew anymore? I finally sat down, ate quickly and quietly, then went upstairs to our room.
Changing into my nightwear, I collapsed onto the bed, utterly drained. My body ached from the weight of the day, and my heart ached even more from the silence I carried inside me. Within minutes, exhaustion pulled me under, and I slipped into a restless sleep.
It was around 3 a.m. when the quiet of the room was disturbed by the sound of the door unlocking. Tara stirred from her sleep, her eyes fluttering open in confusion. The faint creak of the hinges made her sit up slowly.
The door pushed open, and Vishal stepped inside.
Blinking against the darkness, Tara reached for the lamp beside the bed and switched it on. The warm glow filled the room, revealing Vishal's disheveled appearance. His face looked pale and drained, his shirt wrinkled as though he had been wearing it for hours. His hair was tousled and unkempt, and what caught Tara's eyes most were the faint, dark marks scattered across his neck.
She frowned, her voice laced with both concern and hurt. "Why are you this late, Vishal?"
Vishal didn't meet her eyes. He simply stood there for a moment, his silence heavier than words. The exhaustion on his face was evident, but the hickeys on his skin screamed louder than any excuse he could have given.
Tara's heart sank. A sudden thought crossed her mind—maybe... maybe they were from last night. They had been intimate just the night before, and perhaps she had missed noticing the marks in the morning rush. She wanted to believe that. She needed to believe that.
But doubt gnawed at her quietly, unrelenting.
Vishal walked past her without answering, heading straight to the washroom. Tara sat frozen on the bed, staring at the door he had closed behind him, her chest tightening with unease.
When he came back, freshly washed, he didn't speak a word. He slipped into his side of the bed and turned away from her, as though she wasn't even there.
The silence between them was deafening.
Tara bit down on her trembling lip, her throat burning with unshed tears. She switched off the light, leaving the room in darkness, and quietly slipped out to the balcony.
The night air was cool against her damp skin, but it did nothing to soothe the storm raging inside her. The tears she had been holding back finally broke free. They streamed down her cheeks, unstoppable, each one carrying the weight of her confusion, hurt, and loneliness. She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking as sobs escaped her.
Never before had she cried like this—so openly, so helplessly. But tonight, she couldn't hold back. She poured her heart out to the silent night, her voice barely a whisper carried away by the wind.
Hours slipped by as she sat there, sleepless, staring into the fading darkness. By the time dawn painted the sky, Tara knew there would be no rest for her.
At 6 a.m., she forced herself up. Her body felt heavy, but her face was calm, carefully masking the storm within. She took a shower, dressed in a plain white kurti paired with loose jeans, and tied her damp hair back into a neat braid.
Then, as if nothing had happened, she stepped into her daily routine. She prepared breakfast quietly, served Ma, Papa, Masi, and Mihika, and waited until they finished before eating a few bites herself.
Not a word about the night before left her lips.
And when her duties were done, she picked up her bag and left for the hospital, her expression as composed as ever—while inside, the pieces of her heart remained scattered, unseen by anyone.
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