The moonlight spilled through the bedroom window, silver and cold against the walls, but Aradhya felt only the heat of her own humiliation. Her hands trembled in the folds of her saree, the welts on her back—a lattice of Vijay's temper two nights prior—thrummed like living thorns. The house slept, or so it seemed, its silence a cruel echo of the void in her chest. They'll erase me soon, she thought, the alliance for a second wife searing her mind. I'm just a shadow, a body they fill with their demands and then discard.

Vijay's return shattered the stillness. His silhouette framed the doorway, rigid, his jaw taut like a coiled spring. Aradhya's breath hitched. He hates me. I'm nothing to him. But the hope that had been burrowed in her chest for years—What if he sees me, truly sees me?—refused to die.

"What do you want from me?" she whispered, her voice a fraying thread. She stepped forward, each movement a battle against the ache of her bruises. "Please. I'll do anything. You are my world. You matter to me. What kind of wife did you want? Someone who laughs like Anandi with Veer? Someone strong like Maa?" Her throat convulsed, and a strangled sob escaped. "Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what I did wrong. Why am I not enough?"

She collapsed to her knees, her fingers clawing at the floorboards. "I see them. Veer and Anandi. Their smiles. Their... their life. I've always wanted that with you. I love you, Vijay. Even when—" Her voice cracked into the memory of his belt cracking like thunder. "Even when you hit me. I want to be your wife. I'll try to be everything you want. Just... just tell me what I have to do."

Her sobs were ragged, her soul laid bare. If I vanish, at least I'll die trying to be what they needed, she thought, her heart bleeding. If I'm nothing, then let him take it. Let him take it all.

Vijay's pulse roared in his ears. Her words—weak, desperate, raw—were a hot brand on his ribs. I should leave her kneeling, he thought, his fists clenched to his sides. I don't deserve this. She should be Maa, not some...

"You're a bedwarmer," he spat, his voice low and venomous, a whip lashing the air between them. "Nothing more." His gaze flicked to her bruised arms—his doing—and guilt seared his throat before he swallowed it like poison. "I wanted a wife to laugh with Veer, to share my life, not this... this thing."

His pen scratched violently at the ledger, the sound a jagged rhythm to drown her sobs. She's breaking. So am I. The alliance loomed in his mind, Maa's smug promise of a new wife from a "respectable" family a siren song. A girl who wouldn't flinch when he raised his voice. A girl who wouldn't bleed when he lost his temper. A girl who would matter.

But Aradhya's voice—You're my world—clawed at him. He turned, his eyes scanning her hunched form, the way her saree clung to her like a shroud. Does she mean it? The thought was a crack in his armor, and he hated her for it. Hated her for making him feel the weight of his failures, for forcing him to see the life he'd built as a cage.

"You'll never be like Anandi," he said, his voice colder now, a blade honed by years of resentment. "Or Maa. You're nothing. A barren wretch who shames me." He gestured to the door, his hand trembling. "Go. Clean the courtyard. Polish my watch. Do something. Anything. Just don't... don't look at me like I'm the monster here."

The door slammed behind him, and Aradhya's sobs dissolved into silence. Her fingers traced the welts on her arms, the pain a grounding force. He sees their happiness and I'm his shame, she thought, her mind a storm of I love him, I love him, I love him. But he sees me as a failure. A mistake. A body to be replaced.

The alliance was a death knell. She'd heard Maa's whispers in the dining hall, the way Priya and Anandi had exchanged smirks, the way Veer had grunted in approval. They'll throw me out like broken pottery, she realized, her nails digging into her palms. I gave them everything. My body, my silence, my dreams. And still, I'm not enough.

Yet, in the marrow of her despair, a spark flickered. I have nothing. But I have myself. She pressed her forehead to the floor, her breath steadying. They'll try to erase me. But I'll be the ash that lingers.

The courtyard diya burned low when she emerged at dawn, its flame a fragile thing. She swept the dust, her hands blistered from the broom, her back aching from the night's punishment. Maa's voice cut through the air as she passed the dining hall: "Vijay, the Rajput girl is coming this week. You'll thank me."

Aradhya's knees buckled under the weight of the words. This week. This week. This week. She stumbled, her saree catching on a nail, and the fabric tore. Like me, she thought, the sound of her own laugh sharp and broken.

Veer and Anandi's laughter followed her to the laundry room, their shared glances a taunt. Ramesh's watch needed polishing. Priya's shawl mending. Maa's prayer book missing. The tasks piled like stones on her chest, each one a reminder: You are the servant. The failure. The ghost.

But in the mirror of the iron, she saw her reflection—hollow eyes, a body marked by his cruelty—and for the first time, she didn't flinch.

Aradhya's Perspective

Aradhya's sobs choked her, his words—bedwarmer, not worth talking to—a final blow. She curled on the floor, her bruises and welts throbbing, her mind a whirlwind—I'm nothing, he doesn't want me, I'll never be enough. She'd bared her love, her desperation, but he'd rejected her, his eyes cold, his voice a blade. The alliance was a death knell—she'd be pushed aside, forced to serve another. Her mind screamed—I love him, but he hates me, he sees their happiness and I'm his shame. Her defiance flickered—I'm still here, I won't vanish—but despair threatened to swallow her. She clutched her saree, her fingers tracing a welt, her heart whispering—I gave him everything, but I have myself. The alliance, the family's cruelty, his rejection—they crushed her, but that spark was her secret, a fragment of hope she hid, even as her world crumbled.