The bedroom was dim, dawn's light barely piercing the window. Vijay stirred, his sleep shredded by a rage that burned hotter today, a wildfire fed by a disastrous shop deal and the family's relentless scorn. Aradhya lay beside him, still, her arms, shoulders, and back marred with bruises—dark, sprawling marks from his hands, his belt, his unchecked fury. The sight pricked him with a sharp, unwanted pang, a flicker of guilt he crushed under his anger. The clock ticked toward five, shoving him into another day of textile shop chaos and family demands. Aradhya kept the house running—cooking, cleaning, serving, even washing clothes for the entire family, tasks not hers but forced upon her by Meena's iron rule. Her failure to bear a child was their cruel sport, and today, his anger was a beast, fiercer than ever. Meena's talk of a second wife had sparked his rage yesterday, and a botched deal—losing a major client—had poured oil on it, making those bruises a question he refused to face.

He rose, yanking on his khadi kurta, and moved to the dining hall. The family gathered—Ramesh at the table's head, his authority absolute; Meena beside him, her dominance unchallenged; Veer, his brother, slouched over his newspaper; Priya, his sister, flipping through a magazine; and Anandi, Veer's wife, sitting primly. Their voices were a venomous hum. Vijay sat, eating the scrambled eggs Aradhya had set out, the taste lost in his fury. Meena, her bangles clanging, fixed her eyes on Aradhya, a smirk curling her lips. "Aradhya slinks like a beaten dog," she sneered, her voice thick with malice, her gaze lingering on the bruises peeking from Aradhya's saree. "A barren wretch, too broken to give us a child, a stain on our name." Vijay's jaw clenched, her words fanning his rage, but those bruises—on her arms, her neck—flashed in his mind, stirring that unwanted pang.

Priya glanced up, her lips twitching with a stifled smirk, her eyes glinting with subtle amusement. Anandi's mouth curved slightly, a soft, suppressed chuckle escaping, her gaze sharp. Veer grunted, his smirk barely hidden behind his newspaper, while Ramesh nodded solemnly, his silence endorsing Meena's authority. Vijay's fingers gripped his fork, their quiet glee feeding his anger, but that pang of guilt grew, a splinter he couldn't shake.

Aradhya moved frantically, serving tea while balancing plates, her hands shaking, bruises visible on her wrists as she juggled tasks not hers—washing Ramesh's kurtas, Veer's shirts, Priya's sarees, Anandi's blouses. Meena snapped, "Fetch my shawl, Aradhya, now!" as she poured chai. Ramesh barked, "Clean my shoes, they're dusty!" Veer muttered, "Iron my shirt properly this time." Priya added, "Wash my scarf, it's stained." Anandi said, "Polish the brass lamp, it's dull." Their orders clashed, each demand sharp under Meena and Ramesh's watchful eyes, no one daring to claim priority. Aradhya stumbled, dropping a cup in her rush, her bruises stark. Meena sneered, "Can't even manage the house, you barren fool, useless to us all." Vijay's rage boiled higher, their chaos and Aradhya's failure a match to his already burning anger.

Meena leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with malicious joy. "We need to secure your future, Vijay," she said, her voice smug. "A second wife, one who can give us an heir, not this childless wreck who drags us into shame." She flicked her hand at Aradhya, who faltered, nearly spilling tea, her bruised arms trembling. Priya's smirk widened slightly, Anandi stifled another chuckle, Veer grunted, and Ramesh nodded gravely. The words hit Vijay like a spark to dry grass, Meena's earlier whispers—Aradhya's mockery, her shame—burning hotter with the shop's failure. He slammed his fork down, his voice a snarl. "Enough, Ma. It takes time. She's not a cow." The room froze, Meena's smirk fading, Priya and Anandi's amusement stalling, Veer and Ramesh glancing up. His defense was a reflex, sparked by that flicker of guilt, but it was swallowed by his rage. Why defend her? She was the root of his shame.

Meena's lips curled, her gaze venomous. "Time? She's a disgrace, Vijay, a barren curse." She leaned closer, her voice a hiss. "She's spitting on our name, laughing behind your back." The words sank deep, fueling his fury, but that guilt persisted as he saw Aradhya's pale face, her bruised arms struggling under their demands. For a moment, he wondered what it cost her to face their cruelty, his cruelty.

Breakfast ended, the family scattered—Vijay and Veer to the shop, Ramesh to his morning walk, Priya to her room, Anandi to her sewing, Meena to her chatter. Vijay lingered, watching Aradhya clear the table, her movements frantic as Meena barked, "Hurry up, you slow wretch!" and Ramesh added, "Don't forget my shoes!" That sight—her bruises, her struggle with their endless tasks—stirred the pang, but his anger roared louder. He grabbed his briefcase and left, his bicycle's creak drowned by his seething thoughts.

The shop was a disaster—clients cheating him, a major deal lost, costing him more than he could stomach. Aradhya lingered in his mind, a scapegoat for his failures. He hated her silence, her compliance, the way she took his rage. Meena's words—second wife, disgrace, shaming—merged with the shop's chaos, his anger a wildfire. Those bruises, her tears, surfaced, but he crushed the thought, his fury overwhelming.

Lunch brought him back, the table set with dal, curry, rice, and chapatis. Meena sneered, "Aradhya's a broken toy, no child, no use to this house." Priya smirked, Anandi stifled a chuckle, Veer grunted, Ramesh nodded. Aradhya rushed between tasks—washing clothes, serving food—Meena ordering, "Refill the water!" Ramesh demanding, "My kurta needs washing!" Veer muttering, "My shirt's wrinkled!" Her hands shook, bruises stark, as she stumbled to obey. Vijay ate in silence, avoiding her pained movements, Meena's poison burning—she was shaming him, wasn't she? But that flicker of guilt returned, her struggle a shadow of his own failures.

Evening came, the house alive with chatter, the air heavy with aloo gobi and kheer. Meena's taunts resumed—"We need a real wife, Vijay, not this barren fool who mocks our name"—and Priya and Anandi's smirks returned, Veer and Ramesh silent but complicit. Aradhya served, her neck and arms bruised, stumbling as Meena barked, "More kheer!" and Ramesh snapped, "My shoes, now!" Meena had cornered Vijay after lunch, her voice venomous. "She's mocking you, Vijay. No heir, no pride." His rage burned hotter, nearly drowning that flicker of guilt.

The room was a crucible of sweat and tension. Vijay's pen sliced through the paper, scoring the ledger as if it were Aradhya's skin. When she entered, her breath shaky, her saree clinging to her frame like a threadbare shroud, he saw not pain but a target. His chair lurched back with a violent screech, papers swaying in the air as he rose. His voice was a thunderclap. "You make me ash, woman. Not a baby, not a child—nothing."

He seized her, the grip blunt and surging with rage—not on her wrist, but her throat, his thumb pressing against the pulse he had once caressed. She gasped, her hands fluttering to his forearm like a moth trapped under glass. He pressed her to the wall, the impact a thud like a heart calibrated for violence. His belt snapped free from the table, the leather hissing as it coiled through the air.

The first strike split the silence. The welt bloomed across her hip, a red scar over the bruises already there. She tried to wrench free, but his fingers clamped over her forehead, forcing her still. "You dare," he snarled, the belt cracking again—this time against her upper back. Her body convulsed, tears streaking downward like smoke tracing the lines of a flame. "They all see it, don't they?" he hissed, sweat slicking his brow. "The lesser. The worthless."

The leather snapped a third time, her knees buckling beneath her. She sagged to the floor, her fingers clutching at the floor tiles as if to anchor herself to a life that wasn't being torn from her. His foot hit her ribs, not to crush but to remind—this is where you belong.

When he leaned closer, his breath hot against her shaking frame, she anticipated the kiss. Instead, he pressed a knee into her spine, his weight grounding her to the earth. "You're a cage, Aradhya," he spat, the words slithering through her like poison. "All beauty, no fire. No life." His hand rose, and with it, the belt.

The storm ended in a roar from the street—cars revving, horns blaring—but the room remained under siege. Her sobs drowned in the echo of leather on flesh, each strike a reminder that his rage was not just hers, but the family's, the shop's, the world's. When it concluded, he snorted, rising like a man who'd exorcised a demon. "You'll patch yourself up," he growled, collecting fallen papers with calloused hands. "Serve again. Like you were made."

She curled inward, her body a brittle flower, as he turned back to the ledger. The pen's scratch was a requiem to his silence.