The Roy haveli stood heavy with the stillness of night, its marble corridors dim under the flicker of oil lamps. My body ached from the day's chores, the welts from Siddharth's belt now a dull throb beneath the turmeric paste he'd applied. I scrubbed the kitchen floor, my knees sore against the stone, each movement pulling at my wounds. Washing sarees earlier had been agony—lifting the sodden cloth made my back scream, and stirring the curry for dinner had left my arms trembling. Chachi ji's voice had cut through the morning haze: "Aradhya, you call this clean? You're a disgrace to this house!" Her words stung, sharper than the welts, as I hurried to please her.