Night draped the Sharma household in a heavy silence, broken only by the distant chirp of crickets and the faint creak of wooden floors. The air carried the lingering scent of turmeric from Aradhya's cooking, now cooled in the quiet kitchen. Aradhya sat alone in her small room at the edge of the house, a single oil lamp casting flickering shadows across the walls. Her cheek still burned from Vijay's slap, the fresh welts on her shoulders and arms throbbing from the bamboo stick he'd wielded that morning. Her hands trembled as she folded a worn saree, her heart a storm of defiance and fear. I'm still here, she thought, but at what cost? Her defiance, though battered, held firm, a vow to endure for herself, not for the family that scorned her.

The door creaked open, and Vijay stepped in, his silhouette filling the doorway, the lamp's light catching the hard lines of his face. Aradhya froze, her breath catching, the memory of his earlier wrath—"You're mine to command!"—flooding her with terror. She stood, her hands clutching the saree, her eyes wary.