There was an odd silence in the house, punctuated by the clattering dishes Aradhya had just washed. Her hands, worn out by soap and unending chores, trembled as she dried them on a threadbare towel, the coarse fabric grating against her skin. The kitchen clock ticked away, each second a grim reminder of the stifling routine that defined her existence. Her body was a roadmap of aches - her shoulders hunched from scrubbing, her legs heavy from hours of standing, her spirit battered by the weight of Vijay's cruelty. Dinner was done, the house spotless, but the night loomed like a predator, and she was its prey. She was here for this - to keep the house, to serve, to endure - a role assigned to her not by choice, but by the cold mechanics of an arranged marriage.

Aradhya slipped into the bedroom, her bare feet cold against the hardwood, her movements cautious, as if any sound might summon him. Vijay sat in the corner, hunched over a stack of papers, his pen scratching with a ferocity that mirrored his temper. His presence was a storm, heavy and oppressive, filling the room with unspoken menace. She didn't look at him. She moved toward the washroom, her breath shallow, her steps silent. Closing the door, she pressed her forehead against the wood, her heart pounding. The mirror reflected a stranger - sunken eyes, lips pale and pressed thin, a fading bruise on her cheek from last week's rage. She splashed cold water on her face, the sting grounding her briefly, and changed into a worn nightgown. She was a shadow of the woman she might have been, molded into a servant, a vessel, nothing more.

Their marriage had never been about love. No promises, no whispers of affection, no dreams of a shared future. It was a transaction, arranged by families who saw her as a solution to Vijay's need for a housekeeper, a caretaker, a silent figure to maintain his home. She'd been handed over like a piece of furniture - functional, necessary, but never cherished. Vijay had accepted her with the same indifference, his resentment growing with every day she failed to meet his impossible standards. She was here to keep the house, but no amount of cleaning, cooking, or compliance could erase the contempt in his eyes.

Back in the bedroom, Vijay's chair creaked as he stood, the sound slicing through her fragile calm. Her stomach twisted, a sickening knot of dread tightening. She climbed onto the bed, her body sinking into the thin mattress, every muscle screaming for a rest she'd never find. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the cracks she'd memorized, a futile anchor against the fear swallowing her whole. She felt like a caged bird, wings clipped, existing only to perform her duties in a house that was never hers.

"Undress," Vijay's voice cut through the silence, sharp and cold as a blade. Her hands froze, her breath catching. Hesitation was a mistake, but her body was heavy with exhaustion, her mind clouded by countless nights like this. "Don't make me say it again," he snarled, unbuckling his belt with a slow, deliberate motion. The leather hissed as it slid through the loops, a sound that twisted her insides. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes, hot and heavy, but she blinked them back, knowing they'd only fuel his anger. Her fingers fumbled with the nightgown, pulling it off, her skin prickling in the chill air, exposed and vulnerable. She felt like a machine, programmed to obey, stripped of any agency, her purpose reduced to this moment.

Vijay grabbed her wrists, his grip bruising, and looped the belt around them, yanking it tight against the bedpost. The leather bit into her skin, and a soft whimper escaped her lips, a sound she couldn't stifle. "Shut up," he snapped, his face inches from hers, his breath sour with whiskey and rage. "You don't get to cry. This is what you're here for." His words were daggers, each one slicing into the fragile remnants of her spirit. He'd never seen her as a wife, only as a tool - a maid, a cook, a body to use. His resentment was a constant, a poison seeping into every interaction, as if her existence was an insult he couldn't forgive.

He stepped back, his eyes raking over her with a cold, predatory gleam. "You're pathetic," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Can't even do this right." He paced at the foot of the bed, his movements slow, savoring her fear. "You're nothing without this house, this marriage. Nothing. Say it."

Aradhya's throat tightened, the words he demanded choking her. Her lips parted, but no sound came. A sharp slap cracked across her cheek, the sting blooming like fire, her head snapping to the side. A gasp tore from her, and tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable, trailing down her face. "Say it!" Vijay barked, his hand raised again, the threat as heavy as his palm.

"I'm nothing," she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible. The words were his truth, not hers, but they were all she had left to give. Another slap followed, harder, her cheek throbbing as a sob broke free, raw and ragged. "Louder," he demanded, grabbing her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were voids, empty of warmth, filled only with a cruel need to dominate.

"I'm nothing," she said again, louder, her voice cracking like brittle glass. Each syllable was a surrender, a piece of herself she handed over to him. Her heart screamed against it, but her heart had no place here. She was trapped - not just by the belt, but by the life she'd been given. She had nowhere to go. Her family had sent her here, their expectations clear: keep the house, keep the man, keep silent. Her friends were gone, pushed away by Vijay's control, her savings nonexistent, her identity eroded. Vijay was her world, as toxic and suffocating as it was, and a twisted part of her clung to him - not out of love, but out of necessity. He was her purpose, her prison, the only thing tethering her to a life that felt more like a sentence.

Her suffering was a quiet, relentless torment. It lived in the ache of her wrists, the burn of her cheek, the bruises blooming like dark flowers on her skin. But more than that, it lived in her mind, a constant hum of despair, shame, and resignation. Every slap was a reminder of her powerlessness, every insult a chisel carving away her sense of self. She felt like a ghost, haunting her own life, existing only to serve, to endure. The pain was physical, yes - the sting of his hand, the rawness of her wrists, the ache of her body - but the deeper pain was emotional, a hollowness that swallowed her whole. She hated herself for staying, for not fighting, but what was there to fight for? She'd been brought here to keep the house, and she'd done that, hadn't she? The thought was a bitter comfort, a lie she told herself to survive.

Vijay's lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Good," he said, his voice low and venomous. He leaned in, his mouth crashing against hers in a rough, punishing kiss. It was no kiss of affection - it was possession, his teeth grazing her lip, drawing a faint sting of blood, his hands gripping her shoulders hard enough to bruise. Aradhya's body tensed, her bound wrists straining against the leather, her skin raw and burning. She tried to pull away, but there was no escape, no space to retreat. His kisses were a demand, a command to please him, to bend to his will. Her stomach churned with revulsion, but she moved as he wanted, her body responding out of survival, a mechanical act to appease the storm that was Vijay.

"You're here for me," he growled against her lips, his voice thick with possession. "Don't you ever forget that." His hands roamed over her, rough and unyielding, taking without care, without thought for her pain. Each touch was a violation, each word a wound. "Useless... weak... mine..." His insults were a rhythm, a chant that echoed in her mind, drowning out any thought of resistance. Aradhya's tears fell silently now, soaking into the pillow, her whimpers stifled by the fear of what more noise might bring. She tried to detach, to let her mind drift to a safer place - a memory of her childhood, a fleeting dream of freedom - but his voice, his hands, kept pulling her back. "Look at me," he snarled, grabbing her face again, his fingers bruising her cheeks. "You don't get to hide."

She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze, and saw nothing but contempt. He'd never loved her, never promised her anything. Their marriage was a contract, her role defined from the start: keep the house, keep him satisfied, keep quiet. She was a means to an end, a body to maintain his life, a target for his rage. And yet, she couldn't leave. Where would she go? Her family had given her away, their approval tied to her obedience. Her friends were long gone, her world reduced to these walls, this man, this pain. She was nothing outside this marriage, just as he said, and the weight of that truth crushed her.

Her suffering was a silent scream, a constant ache that lived in her bones, her heart, her mind. She felt the tears dry on her cheeks, her sobs quieting as she retreated inward, her body present but her spirit curled tight, protecting what little of herself remained. When it was over, Vijay untied her wrists, the belt falling to the floor with a dull thud. He didn't look at her as he stood, pulling on his shirt with a careless tug. "Clean yourself up," he muttered, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "You look like a mess."

He left the room, the door clicking shut, leaving Aradhya in the dim glow of the lamp. She curled into herself, her body trembling, her wrists red and raw, her cheek stinging. The tears came again, hot and unrelenting, as she hugged her knees to her chest. The silence was deafening, but it was safer than his presence. She didn't dream of escape - not tonight, not ever. Escape was a fantasy for someone with somewhere to go, someone with a self to reclaim. She had neither. Vijay was her world, her purpose, her prison, and she was bound to him - not by love, but by duty and the crushing weight of having nothing else.

She rose, her legs unsteady, and shuffled to the washroom. The mirror showed her tear-streaked face, her lip swollen