The dawn slunk into the bedroom, its feeble light creeping across the tiled floor of the Sharma household, nestled in the chaos of a bustling Indian town, 1900. Vijay Sharma stirred, his sleep a jagged mess, torn by the weight of another suffocating day. At 24, he felt like a man buried alive, crushed by the textile business and the endless demands of his family. Beside him, Aradhya lay still, her breathing a whisper, her face a maddening vision of beauty. At 20, she was a rare gem—her almond eyes like dark pools, her skin glowing like polished teak, her features so perfect they mocked him. But her beauty was a curse, a slap in the face, reminding him of a marriage he never wanted, a life chained to a woman he could've done better than.

He rose, yanking his khadi kurta into place, the fabric a bitter symbol of the Sharma legacy he was forced to uphold. The clock read five, its ticking a relentless jab at his nerves—ledgers to fix, clients to grovel for, a family to carry on his back. Six years ago, at 18, he'd been shackled to Aradhya, then 14, in a deal cooked up by their families. She was brought to keep the house, to scrub, cook, and bow, a glorified servant dressed up as a wife. Her beauty was supposed to be a prize, but it was a lie, a shiny wrapper on a useless package. He resented her—her silence, her perfection, the way she haunted his life like a shadow he couldn't shake. He could've had better—a woman with fire, with status, not this fragile doll who only knew how to fail.

He watched her slip from the bed, her bare feet grazing the cold tiles, her cotton saree clinging to her too-perfect frame. She shuffled to the bathroom, her damp hair knotted like a noose, her eyes downcast like the coward she was. Her beauty was a taunt, a blade twisting in his gut. He didn't love her—never had, never would. Love was for idiots, for the market couples giggling over rotten fruit or the temple fools fussing over each other's scarves. His marriage was a prison, and Aradhya was the warden, her presence a daily reminder of a life stolen from him.

In the dining hall, the family gathered, their voices a grating racket. Vijay slumped at the head of the teak table, shoveling down the scrambled eggs Aradhya had made, the black pepper sharp enough to cut through his irritation. Meena stabbed at her paratha, her bangles jangling like chains. "This is a greasy mess, Aradhya," she snapped, her voice dripping venom. "Trying to kill Ramesh with your slop?" Vijay's lip curled, but he didn't speak. Meena's barbs were deserved—Aradhya couldn't even get breakfast right, could she? Useless, always useless.

Priya, his 18-year-old sister, flicked through a magazine, her braid swinging like a pendulum. "This tea's cold as a corpse, Bhabhi," she sneered, rolling her eyes. "Can't you do anything properly?" Vijay smirked, Priya's sharp tongue a spark of life in this dead house. She had dreams, a future, not like Aradhya, who dragged them all down with her incompetence. Anandi, Veer's wife, piped up, her voice syrupy but cutting. "The salad's bland, Aradhya. Veer needs flavor to get through his day, not this garbage." Veer grunted, nose in the newspaper, oblivious. Vijay leaned toward Meena, asking about her doctor, then jabbed at Priya about her exams, his voice warm for them, his smile real. They were his blood, his pride. Aradhya was nothing, a ghost serving plates, her saree brushing the floor like a broom. He didn't look at her. Why bother? She was a tool, not a person.

"You can't even keep this family fed, can you?" Vijay muttered, low enough for only Aradhya to hear as she refilled his water. Her hand shook, and he felt a flicker of dark satisfaction. "I could've married someone who'd make this house worth living in, not a failure like you." Her eyes stayed down, her beauty a useless mask, and it infuriated him more. She didn't even fight back—just took it, like the spineless thing she was.

Breakfast ended, and Vijay stood, smoothing his kurta, the textile business his only escape from this suffocating life. "Market needs?" he barked, his voice sharp for his family, not her. Meena demanded tomatoes, Priya her damned biscuits, Anandi rose water. Aradhya stood there, hands clasped under her saree's pallu, silent as a stone. He didn't ask her what she wanted—she didn't get to want. "See you at lunch," he snapped to the room, grabbing his briefcase and storming out, the creak of his bicycle a relief from her presence.

The textile shop was a battlefield—clients whining, ledgers a mess, the summer heat choking him. Aradhya festered in his mind, her beauty a splinter he couldn't dig out. He hated how she took his anger, how she never snapped, how her silence made him feel both king and prisoner. She was too perfect, too weak, and it drove him to rage. He could've had a wife who lifted the family's name, not this pretty shell who couldn't even keep his mother happy. Her failures piled up—the greasy parathas, the cold tea, the house that was never clean enough, the way she made him feel trapped in a life he despised.

Lunch brought him back, the table groaning with dal, curry, rice, and chapatis, all her doing but never good enough. Meena sneered, "This dal's like dishwater, Aradhya. Can't you cook anything worth eating?" Priya shoved her plate back. "These chapatis are like leather, Bhabhi. You're useless." Anandi, stirring her curry, added, "The spices are all wrong. Veer deserves better than this slop." Vijay's eyes flicked to Aradhya, her face pale, her hands trembling as she served. "You call this a meal?" he hissed, loud enough for the table to hear. "You can't even feed us right. I should've married someone who could run a house, not a pathetic excuse like you." Her flinch was visible now, and it fed the fire in his chest.

He ate in silence, his gaze never meeting hers. Her exhaustion, her beauty marred by shadows under her eyes, a faint bruise on her cheek from last night—it all irritated him. She was failing, always failing, dragging the family down with her. He didn't love her, didn't want to. She was here to keep the house, to take his rage, to be the punching bag for a life that suffocated him.

Evening came, the house buzzing with chatter, the air thick with aloo gobi and kheer. Vijay told a work story, coaxing laughter from Priya, nods from Meena. Aradhya served, her movements slow, her beauty dimmed by fatigue. Meena scoffed, "This kheer's pure sugar, Aradhya. Trying to ruin Ramesh's health?" Priya smirked, "You look half-dead, Bhabhi. Can't even stand up straight." Vijay's temper flared. "You're a disgrace," he muttered, just for her. "Can't cook, can't clean, can't even keep this family happy. I could've had a real wife, not a worthless thing like you." Her eyes flickered with pain, and it sparked something cruel in him, a need to break her further.

Dinner ended, the family scattered, and Vijay retreated to the bedroom, his papers strewn across the table, his mind on tomorrow's grind. Aradhya entered, her steps faltering, her saree damp from dishes. Her beauty was a slap, a reminder of what he'd been denied—a better life, a better wife. He stood, the chair scraping, and stalked toward her, his rage boiling. "Strip, you useless thing," he snarled, unbuckling his belt, the leather hissing. Her eyes flashed with fear, tears welling, but she obeyed, her hands shaking, her beauty a cruel joke against her vulnerability.

He tied her wrists to the bedpost, the leather cutting into her skin, her whimper like nails on a slate. "You're nothing," he spat, his voice a blade. "A failure who can't even keep a house worth living in." A slap cracked across her cheek, her gasp sharp, tears spilling down her face. "Say it," he growled, and when she choked out, "I'm nothing," her voice a broken whisper, he slapped her again, harder. "Louder, you pathetic cow!" he roared, grabbing her chin, his fingers bruising her jaw, forcing her eyes to his. Those beautiful, haunted eyes were a mirror he loathed, showing him his own emptiness.

The bedroom was a battleground, the air thick with tension as Vijay loomed over Aradhya, his belt clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Her wrists were bound to the bedpost with the soft sari fabric, her breathing ragged and shallow. The light from the dim lamp cast long shadows across her pale skin, highlighting the bruise on her cheek that still throbbed from his earlier blows.

Vijay circled the bed like a predator, his eyes raking over her trembling form with a mix of disdain and dark desire. "You're nothing but a useless ornament," he spat, trailing the leather belt along her arm, leaving a raised welt in its wake. "A pretty doll who can't even keep a house in order." He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "I should've married a woman who could run this family, not a pathetic shell like you."

Tears welled in Aradhya's eyes, her lower lip quivering as she struggled to hold back a sob. She knew he was right. She had failed him, failed the family, failed herself. But it didn't make the pain any easier to bear.

Vijay's hands were rough as they roamed her body, squeezing her breasts almost painfully before trailing lower. He ripped open her blouse with a sudden jerk, exposing her heaving chest to his hungry gaze. "Look at you, shaking like a leaf," he sneered, pinching her nipples hard enough to make her cry out. "You don't deserve to be touched, you worthless thing."

His mouth crashed against hers in a brutal, punishing kiss, his teeth sinking into her lip until she tasted blood. He bit down on her neck hard enough to leave a vivid mark, branding her as his property. "You're mine," he growled, ripping away the rest of her clothes with a savage snarl. "My property, my plaything, to use however I see fit."

Aradhya whimpered as he forced her legs apart, his fingers probing roughly at her most intimate places. She was dry, the intrusion painful, but Vijay didn't care. He entered her with a harsh thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her tight heat. "This is all you're good for," he grunted, pounding into her with bruising force. "A warm hole for me to fill when I'm feeling generous."

Each brutal thrust sent a jolt of pain through Aradhya's battered body, but she gritted her teeth and took it, knowing that resistance would only make things worse. She was just a vessel for his anger, a punching bag for his frustration. And she had no choice but to endure it.

As Vijay's pace grew more frenzied, his grip on her hips tightening until she knew she'd have bruises tomorrow, Aradhya let her mind drift away from the pain. She thought of the vegetable market, the bright colors and lively chatter that never failed to lift her spirits. She thought of the birds that nested in the old mango tree in the courtyard, their sweet songs a soothing balm on lonely afternoons. She thought of the way the sunlight danced on the water in the village pond, the cool droplets refreshing on her flushed skin.

And then, with a final harsh thrust, Vijay reached his peak, emptying himself inside her with a low groan. He collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing, before rolling away with a satisfied grunt.

Aradhya lay there, tied to the bed, tears streaming down her face as she felt his seed leaking out of her abused body. She had never felt so used, so worthless, so utterly broken.

And yet, in the depths of her despair, a tiny spark of defiance flickered to life. She may be nothing in Vijay's eyes, but she refused to let him break her completely. Somehow, someway, she would find the strength to endure.