5. FEAR
AAROHI:
The door shut with a sound that felt like it slipped straight under my skin. A sharp click. A finality. A decision I had no say in.
I didn't move. My cheek pressed against the pillow where tears were already soaking through, and my fingers curled around the blanket as if it could shield me from the words still burning inside my ears.
You don't get what you want. You get what I decide.
My breath staggered in my chest, too tight, too sharp. The room felt colder than before, or maybe I was colder-because the warmth inside me had been replaced by something hollow.
The doctor's voice was soft, almost hesitant. "hey..... can you sit up for me?"
I tried. My body didn't follow. My arms shook before they even pushed against the mattress. A small helpless sound escaped my throat-humiliating, thin, fragile.
"I... I c-can't..."
"Alright," she murmured gently and slipped a hand behind my shoulders, lifting me inch by inch. Even breathing felt like lifting a stone.
When she finally managed to pull me upright, the world swayed slightly. Dark spots flickered at the edges of my vision.
"Slow," she said. "Don't force it."
I wasn't forcing anything. My body was simply... empty. I hugged my arms around myself, nails digging into my skin as if the pressure could hold me together.
The doctor checked my pulse again. "Too weak," she muttered under her breath. "This is more than just fear." My throat tightened.
It wasn't new. The trembling in my hands. The tightness in my chest when I tried to speak. The fear whenever someone raised their voice. I'd been this way long before him.
But now it felt worse... because now I had no door to run out of, no street to escape into, no mother's hug to hide inside. I didn't even have permission to cry. The doctor looked at me for a long, quiet moment.
Then she asked something no one had asked me since I'd been dragged into this house:
"Do you want water?" My lips parted instantly. "Y...yes..." She held the glass to my mouth because my hands refused to stop shaking long enough to hold it myself.
The water tasted like nothing but still burned down my throat from how dry everything inside me felt. When the glass emptied, she placed it aside and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Aarohi..." Her voice softened. "Did you eat breakfast?" My eyes dropped to my lap. "I... I d-didn't feel like it."
"And lunch?" My breath trembled. "He... didn't let me ask for... f-food..." Because asking was disobedience. And disobedience had consequences.
The doctor pressed her lips together, worrying about tightening her expression. "You're not a prisoner," she whispered. I didn't answer. Because she didn't know. She didn't know the threats. The marriage forced onto me. The fact that he owned every second of my life now.
Every breath. Every step. Every bite I ate. And my mother, I felt a sharp pain in my chest at the thought. I wanted her.
I needed her. I just want to meet her once... The moment that whisper slipped out earlier, everything inside him hardened like stone.
"You don't ask for your mother."
It kept echoing, louder than the doctor's voice, louder than my own heartbeat.
The doctor carefully opened a packet of supplements. "These will help. Take them after food." She hesitated. "Will someone bring you food soon?"
I lowered my eyes. I didn't know. I didn't dare ask. Not after what happened last time.
The silence in the room stretched-long, heavy, tense. She let out a soft sigh. "I'll inform the staff to bring something immediately." My heart thudded unevenly.
"N-No... d-don't... p-please..."
Her brows furrowed. "Why not?" Because he hadn't allowed it. Because anyone breaking his rules... would suffer. And maybe I would too. I shook my head, voice barely a breath.
"If... if he f-finds out..."
The doctor's expression changed-something protective flickering in her eyes, something almost angry. "What is this place?" she whispered under her breath, more to herself than to me.
"What kind of house is this?" I didn't reply. She finished her checks, noted something in her phone, and then placed a light blanket over me. "I'll talk to him," she said gently.
"Not to argue, don't worry. Just to make sure you're taken care of." Panic shot through me. "N-no-no, p-please-d-don't talk-don't-"
She touched my shoulder lightly. "I'll be careful. He won't get angry at you. I'll handle it." She didn't understand. If he became angry, it didn't matter who caused it, I would always pay for it.
The doctor squeezed my hand once, then stood up. "I'll come again tomorrow. Rest. And please... eat." Then she walked out. The door clicked shut again.
And my chest tightened all over. I curled slowly onto my side, pulling the blanket close, my breath trembling with every exhale. The room felt too large, too silent, too cold.
He didn't come back. didn't send dinner. didn't check on me. didn't even think of me.
And I... lay there with the taste of fear and nothingness in my mouth.
The night stretched, long and heavy. My stomach hurts. My head throbbed. My throat burned. But the hunger was still easier than the fear of opening that door.
I closed my eyes, wishing-just for a moment, that someone would call my name softly. That someone would hold my shaking hands. That someone... would come for me. But no one did.
Not until much later.
A soft knock. A whisper. A woman's voice:
"Madam... food..." My eyes opened slowly. And that moment, that tiny, quiet, unexpected kindness- felt like a breath of air in a room full of suffocation. The night crept by slowly after the maid left.
The food she brought was simple-khichdi, warm and soft. My hands were shaking while eating, but it stayed down. My stomach didn't twist painfully for the first time that day.
I slept curled in the blanket, exhaustion swallowing whatever fear was left awake. When morning came, it wasn't gentle. A knock, firm, pulled me out of sleep.
"Madam," a maid called softly, "you need to get ready." My mind was still foggy, but the words needed to make my chest tighten.
Orders. Always orders, then another knock.
"Sir will be leaving for work soon. You must bathe today."
I blinked into the dim room, the sunlight barely brushing the carpet. Had it been... two days? Maybe more. My body felt heavy, but I forced myself up. The maid helped me stand because my knees still wobbled. She guided me to the bathroom, her voice soft, careful, almost apologetic.
"I'm sorry, madam," she murmured, wringing her hands. "We didn't know if we were allowed to help before..."
I didn't answer. I didn't know what I was allowed to do at all. The hot water stung at first, then loosened the ache in my bones. She washed my hair gently, like she feared it might break off. She handed me a soft towel and helped me into a fresh kurta-light, pale blue, comfortable.
When we stepped out, she asked quietly, "Would you... like some fresh air?"
My breath caught. Fresh air. A garden. Open sky.
I hesitated. If he found out... But the maid cut in gently. "I will be careful. Just ten minutes."
She didn't even ask him. She just... decided this for me. And something inside me broke a little, not in pain, but in relief.
She led me through the hallway, down a silent corridor, and outside into the garden of Sarkar Mansion. It was huge. Bigger than any place I had ever stood in. Tall hedges, perfectly cut.
Roses in tight clusters. A stone pathway that curved like it belonged in a palace.
The sky felt too wide after days spent inside that single room. I walked slowly to a patch of soft green grass. The maid spread a thin cushion on the ground, but I sank beside it, preferring the earth under me.
The air smelled like jasmine and rain-soaked leaves even though it hadn't rained. My hair still dripped at the ends, and the breeze felt cool against my neck.
For the first time since coming here, I breathed without fear crushing my lungs. And then-
A heavy presence settled over the garden. Like a shift in the air. A shadow where sunlight had been. The maid stiffened before I even turned. I didn't need to look.
I felt him.
His footsteps were controlled, slow, each one carrying the weight of someone who expected the world to move aside for him. He stopped behind us.
I swallowed hard and stood instantly-too quickly. The world tilted for a second, but I forced myself straight.
The maid's hands shook. She lowered her head, whispering something like a prayer under her breath.
He didn't say a word. Not to her. Not to me.
His silence was sharper than shouting. He gave the maid a look-cold, cutting, a dead stare that pulled the warmth out of the air. The maid flinched. I felt her fear like it was my own.
He didn't have to raise his voice. One look from him was enough to make someone regret existing. Then he turned his eyes on me.
Dark. Unreadable. Too steady.
"Inside," he said. My breath hitched. The maid nodded quickly and backed away as he started walking, expecting me to follow without question. I didn't have a choice.
My feet moved automatically. Inside the mansion, he didn't slow. His pace was long, effortless, purposeful, even though it was Sunday-when normal people rested.
But he wasn't normal. He didn't have rest days. He didn't have softness.
He didn't have a heart that paused for anything except business. We reached the dining hall at exactly noon. He stopped beside the long wooden table set for two. "You'll take lunch here," he said simply. "From now on, you don't eat in your room."
My fingers dug into the fabric of my kurta. Beside him. Visible.
"No more hiding," he added. I lowered my eyes; hiding had been the only thing I could do to breathe. He pulled out a chair for himself, then glanced at the seat beside him, a silent order. I sat, carefully, quietly, my hands clenched in my lap.
The staff entered and placed dishes on the table-a mixture of Indian and something foreign. Then a pair of chopsticks beside my plate.
My heart dropped. I stared at them, blinking. I had seen chopsticks before. On TV. On posters at fancy restaurants, I had never held one. He started eating effortlessly, not even glancing at me. His posture was clean, sharp, disciplined. Precision in every movement.
I picked up the chopsticks. My fingers slipped instantly. The wooden sticks clattered softly against the plate. A sound so small, yet it felt like thunder inside my chest.
My pulse raced. I tried again. My hand shook worse. I couldn't grip them. Couldn't lift anything. A lump formed in my throat, fear, humiliation, the memory of last night swelling like a bruise behind my ribs.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my hand. The chopsticks slipped again. His fork paused. Not long. Not noticeably. But enough that I felt his eyes on me. Heat crawled up my neck.
I tried one more time, My fingers twisted wrong, The sticks fell onto the table with a soft, defeated tap. I froze. My breath stuck. He watched me.
Silent. Unmoving. Expression unreadable. I wanted to disappear. Curl into the chair. Sink into the floor. But he said nothing.
Not yet. Not until I looked up, trembling. Then, slowly, deliberately, he set down his own chopsticks. And leaned back.
Waiting., Watching every tiny movement in my fingers with an intensity that made my stomach tighten painfully.
The heat in the room felt unbearable. I didn't know how to eat like him. I didn't belong in rooms with polished tables and complicated cutlery.
I didn't belong beside a man carved entirely out of control. I was just a girl who served tea in a café. And now I couldn't even lift my lunch. My voice barely escaped my throat.
"I... I d-don't know h-how to..." The sentence broke. My courage broke with it.
And he just watched me, quiet, sharp, dominating, as if waiting to see what I would do next.