Morning came with silence. The kind that doesn't soothe, just settles like dust over wounds.

After the woman left, Nitin stretched his arms with a yawn, the grin on his face smug and satisfied. He stepped out of his room, humming lightly, shirt unbuttoned, still drunk on the power of the night.

He glanced around the house, frowning when he didn't see Bhoomi anywhere.

Then he spotted her.

Curled up on the kitchen floor.

Still in her old saree, arms wrapped around herself, dark circles deeper than before. She was fast asleep-or maybe just too exhausted to pretend to be awake.

Nitin snorted under his breath, trying not to laugh.

He didn't shout. Didn't call her name. That would be too easy.

Instead, he pushed the pile of utensils stacked nearby. The loud crash echoed through the room.

Bhoomi jolted awake, disoriented and terrified. Her eyes searched for the source of the noise, landing on him-standing tall, smirking, proud.

Her lips parted to speak, but he cut her off coldly.

"We're going out today. Be ready by 5 PM." And with that, he turned and walked away.

Bhoomi sat there, still half-asleep, her body aching from the hard floor. Her mind tried to catch up with his words. Going out? Why? With him?

She didn't have the strength to think. Only dread filled her chest.

Meanwhile, Nitin returned to his room, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

Tonight, he would show her off.

Not as a wife.

Not as someone he loved.

But as a trophy-proof that he'd won.

It had taken time.

But spreading that fake video-Bhoomi with someone in college, twisted and edited-had worked like poison.

People believed it.

They whispered behind her back.

They called her shameless.

Bhoomi's father was crushed.

And that's when Nitin swooped in.

A jobless dropout.

A man with nothing but audacity and a plan.

He demanded a huge dowry and still painted himself as the hero-the man who "saved" a tainted girl's life.

The truth?

He forced her.

And Bhoomi?

She only said yes to save her father.

"If you don't marry him... I'll kill myself." That was the only sentence her father managed to say-his voice shaking, his eyes filled with shame he hadn't even earned. And just like that, her world collapsed. Her choices vanished. Her future turned to ash.

The rest was history.

No amount of dowry was ever enough to satisfy Nitin or his family. They had squeezed her father dry and still found ways to humiliate her. The marriage meant nothing to them-only the performance of control.

Within weeks, Nitin started bringing other women into the house-boldly, shamelessly. And no one said a word. Not his mother. Not his sister. Not the neighbors. After all, he was the "hero"-the man who married a disgraced girl, who had saved her from social ruin.

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The dining room was filled with the clatter of breakfast-steel plates scraping, half-hearted chatter echoing off the mud-brick walls. Bhoomi moved between everyone quietly, serving parathas, pouring buttermilk, keeping her eyes low and steps quiet.

Shashi licked her fingers, pushed her plate forward, and said, loud enough for the whole room to hear,

"Ma, I've been thinking... I need a scooty."

Kalpana looked up. "Scooty? For what? You hardly go anywhere."

Shashi rolled her eyes dramatically. "Everyone in the village has one now. I'm not going to ride that old bicycle forever. I look like a maid, not a daughter from a respectable family."

Dharamveer cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair.

"Hmmmm... Bhoomi," he said slowly, eyes still on his food. "Tell your father to send money. Shashi needs a new scooty."

Bhoomi, mid-pour with the buttermilk, froze. She looked at him, confused.

"But... he just sent money last week, for-"

He cut her off with a sharp glance.

"Then tell him to send more. What's the use of having a daughter married off if she can't help her new family?"

Shashi chimed in with a smirk. "Tell him it's urgent. I have to go to my coaching classes. The girls laugh when I show up walking."

"But Papa doesn't have that much money," Bhoomi said softly, standing near the dining mat, curry stains still on her fingers. "He's already given so much... more than he could afford."

Dharamveer didn't even look up from his plate. "Then pack your bag and go back to your house."

The room fell still for a second.

"No!" Shashi blurted, annoyed. "Who'll do all the work then?"

Kalpana chuckled, sipping her chaach. "We'll hire a maid, beta. And in no time, your brother will be married again. Men don't stay single for long."

Bhoomi's breath caught.

Shashi shrugged. "True. At least the next one will bring a bigger dowry."

Dharamveer leaned back with finality, wiping his mouth with the edge of his gamcha. "Tell your father to send the money by this week. Or be ready to take back his shameless daughter."

Bhoomi stood frozen, parathas still in her hand, something inside her wilting all over again.

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Evening arrived earlier than usual, Bhoomi checked the time-and instantly rushed.

Her saree hid the bruises on her arms and back.

For her face?

Just a few drops of concealer... the same one she'd ordered months ago-

thinking she'd use it for festivals, not damage.

Now the bottle was nearly empty, Used only to cover pain.

"Come fast!!" Nitin's voice thundered through the house.

Bhoomi tightened her blouse, fixed her pleats, and ran.

Before stepping out, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Face clean. Eyes hollow.

A woman trying to look untouched by the chaos she's drowning in.

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Soft music played in the background, low enough to be ignored but loud enough to set a mood. The small drawing room smelled faintly of sandalwood and old whisky.

Knock knock...

Shikhar opened the door, his face lighting up.

"How are you? You've come after so long, bro!" Raghav stepped in and hugged him tightly.

"Hey! What about me?" Rahul grinned from behind, Shikhar smiled and pulled him into a hug too.

The three of them walked into the room and settled down on the worn-out couch.

"So... is he coming too?" Rahul asked, tossing a cushion aside.

Shikhar nodded.

"With... her?" Raghav added carefully.

Shikhar didn't answer right away. He poured three glasses of dark liquor, handed one each to Raghav and Rahul, then leaned back with his own.

"Hmm."

That was all he said.

But the look in his eyes said everything else.

The room was dim, music playing low, the clinking of glasses the only steady rhythm.

"So... does she even know you?" Raghav asked, curious.

Shikhar chuckled. "She's seen me. Once. Maybe twice." He leaned back in the sofa, letting the glass rest against his lips.

"But no... she doesn't know me."

Rahul raised an eyebrow. "Then why her?"

Shikhar's eyes darkened.

"You don't forget a girl like her. I saw her once outside her house. She was hanging clothes on the line... sunlight in her hair, that red dupatta..."

He smiled, slow and twisted. "She didn't even look up. But I watched. And from that day... she was mine."

Raghav looked uneasy, "That's dangerous thinking."

Shikhar swirled the drink in his glass, voice calm, "Obsession always is."

Rahul raised an eyebrow, "But she's married now. His wife."

Shikhar didn't even flinch "So?", His eyes were dark, detached, "Marriage means nothing when the man is nothing."

Raghav scoffed "You think she's still untouched? Living with Nitin?" He smirked cruelly. "You'll be tasting his leftovers."

For a moment, silence.

Then Shikhar leaned forward, the edge of his smile razor-sharp. His voice dropped to something far more dangerous.

"I don't take leftovers." He swirled the drink once, slow and deliberate.

"But for her..."

He looked up, eyes gleaming with something unhinged. "I'll lick her off the floor."

Raghav and Rahul laughed-quiet, dark, knowing.

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The car jerked to a stop outside the house.

Bhoomi adjusted her saree, fingers fumbling over the pleats as she tried to smooth out the trembling in her hands.

Nitin lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, then turned to her, voice sharp and cold.

"Don't act smart in front of them. Behave, smile, and keep your mouth shut. Or I swear, I'll slap you right there in front of everyone."

She lowered her gaze, nodding quietly.

He crushed the cigarette under his heel, stepped out, and knocked.

A moment later, the door opened.

A man in a crisp white shirt stood there. Bhoomi didn't look up fully-just enough to glimpse his frame. She kept her eyes on the floor. Nitin walked right in, already speaking, already laughing.

Bhoomi lingered outside, unsure if she was meant to follow.

The man at the door didn't say anything. He simply stepped aside and motioned with his hand.

She stepped in.

The air inside was colder, heavier. She looked around, her heart thudding.

No other woman. Just men. Three of them. All staring.

"This is her," Nitin said casually-like he was showing off a new phone, Before anyone could respond, he launched into another monologue about himself.

"You want water?" The voice that asked was low, deep, and oddly gentle. She shook her head softly, eyes still fixed on the floor.

"If you want, you can sit in the other room," the same man offered, his tone unreadable.

"No... I'm fine," she murmured.

"Hey! Don't bother her," Nitin cut in with a grin. "She'll sit wherever she wants. Now come, bro, tell me about your life abroad-how much do you earn now?"

The room filled with laughter, but none of it reached her ears. Bhoomi remained still, her hands clutched tightly in her lap as she sat awkwardly near the edge of the room, fingers tugging at the edge of her saree, trying to fold herself smaller, invisible.

The men kept talking - loud, laughing, drinking. Nitin had already slouched back on the couch like he owned the place, bragging about some old business idea that never took off.

Her throat was dry. Her stomach ached from the tension.

"You sure you don't want water?" The same voice came again - soft, steady. It wasn't a demand. It wasn't mocking. Just... there.

She looked up. Briefly.

The man in the white shirt - tall, sharp-eyed, handsome in a way that felt severe. His features were carved with purpose, but his gaze on her was softer than it should've been.

She blinked and looked away. "No... I'm fine," she said again, quieter this time.

He didn't push. Just nodded.

Then walked past the others, toward the kitchen, and came back with a glass anyway. He didn't force it into her hand - just set it down beside her.

"In case you change your mind."

That was all.

No stare. No comment. No demand.

Just that unnerving gentleness.

For the first time in days, Bhoomi didn't feel barked at.

Nitin poured himself another drink, half drunk already, his voice louder now, more careless.

"You know what's funny?" he slurred, looking around. "Shikhar here... had a thing for her." He pointed a lazy finger at Bhoomi, who stiffened on instinct.

Shikhar didn't move, Bhoomi's eyebrows pinched, confused.

She still didn't even know this man's name.

"He used to ask about her all the time." Nitin turned to her now, grinning.

Her mouth went dry.

She had no idea she'd ever been seen.

"Poor guy," Nitin said with a cruel laugh. "Guess I got lucky."

pause.

Tension coiled in the silence until Raghav clapped his hands once.

"Chalo, let's play something. It's getting too heavy in here." (let's play something)

"Cards?" Rahul said, already pulling out a worn deck from the drawer. "Like old times."

Nitin chuckled, shaking off the shift. "Why not? I'm feeling lucky tonight."

Bhoomi sat still in the corner, trying to fold herself into the furniture.

They just shuffled the cards and lit more cigarettes.

The room was thick with smoke and tension.

They started small - a few hundred, then a few thousand. Raghav lost the first hand. Rahul folded the second. Nitin kept winning, round after round, drunker and louder with each one.

"Luck's on my side tonight!" he boasted, slapping down cards like a king.

Shikhar stayed quiet. Focused. His expression unreadable.

He didn't care about winning money, He wasn't even really playing the game.

He was watching Nitin.

And then, just when the room had settled into laughter again, shikhar leaned back in his chair, glass dangling from his fingers.

"You know what?"

He downed the rest of his drink, Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then looked straight at Nitin.

"Let's raise the stakes."

Raghav raised an eyebrow, "How much?"

Shikhar didn't take his eyes off him.

His smile was slow. Measured. The kind that meant danger, not amusement.

"Just me and you," he said. "One game."

Nitin squinted. "Just us?"

"Why, Nitin? You scared?" Shikhar asked, voice smooth as glass.

"Absolutely not," Nitin scoffed, puffing his chest out.

"Then let's make it interesting," Shikhar said, leaning forward.

"I'll put everything-my earnings, my properties, my business. Every rupee I've ever made."

The room froze.

Raghav sat up straighter.

Rahul stared.

Even Nitin blinked, trying to figure out if he heard that right.

"Everything?" Nitin whispered.

Shikhar nodded once.

"All of it."

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Nitin's pride flared. His jaw clenched.

He looked at Raghav-seeking approval he'd never admit needing-then turned back to Shikhar.

"Fine," he said, puffing his chest. "Same. I bet everything I have."

Shikhar didn't blink.

He leaned back just a little, that crooked, dangerous grin cutting across his face.

"Done"

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