NOODLES
“Where will I sleep?” I asked, my voice sharp with disbelief.
He finally looked at me.
“You sleep in the living hall,” he said evenly. “I’ll take the room.”
My mouth fell open.
“What the fuck?” I snapped. “Never in my life have I slept on the floor.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, unmoved.
“This is my house,” he said quietly. “My rules.”
The words landed heavier than any insult.
I said nothing after that.
He walked past me, sat on one corner of the living hall floor, leaned his back against the wall, and pulled out his phone—scrolling as if I didn’t exist, as if I wasn’t standing there in disbelief, fury bubbling under my skin.
Ignored.
Me.
My jaw clenched.
I grabbed a cloth from the nearest table, crouched down, and wiped the floor with a look of pure disgust, as if the dust itself had personally offended me. Every swipe burned my pride. Every second screamed how far I’d fallen.
Finally, I sat down—legs crossed, spine straight, chin lifted.
If I had to sit on the floor, I would do it with dignity.
He didn’t look up.
The silence between us wasn’t awkward.
Since morning, I hadn’t eaten anything.
Not a crumb. Not a sip.
Hunger wasn’t the problem—haste was.
I had been running against time, dragging this marriage to the registrar’s desk before he could grow a spine and refuse me. Even water—my one non-negotiable ritual—I had abandoned.
The irony tasted bitter.
Now the only thing left with me was my phone.
I pulled it out and let my thumb move on its own, scrolling through my old Instagram posts.
There I was—glass skin glowing under chandeliers, silk clinging to a body that never touched the ground. Private jets. Wine glasses catching light. Smiles curated, captions sharper than knives. A woman who owned rooms the moment she walked in.
Every picture screamed control. Power. Luxury.
And here I was—
sitting cross-legged on a stranger’s floor, stomach hollow, throat dry, pride bruised.
The screen reflected a life that felt unreal now.
As if I had fallen out of my own photograph.
My fingers paused on one post—
me laughing, careless, invincible.
I swallowed.
“I’m… so hungry,” I hissed under my breath.
Then, louder—sharper—masking it the only way I knew how.
“So,” I said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “you don’t even give water to your wife?”
He looked up at me.
For a second—just one—his eyes met mine.
Then he looked back at his phone.
My throat tightened.
“I’m feeling hungry,” I said again, this time quieter. Stripped. Embarrassed. The words felt foreign on my tongue.
I had never felt this before.
Hunger, to me, had always been optional.
Food arrived before I asked. Served on silver plates, polished until they reflected my face back at me. Ten dishes, sometimes more—crafted by chefs whose names were whispered with respect. I ate because it was time to eat, not because my body demanded it.
But now—nothing.
No plates. No aroma. No servants waiting for a nod.
Just an ache curling inside me.
So this is hunger.
He finally looked at me again.
He stood up without a word.
And walked out of the house.
I stared at the door after him, disbelief flooding my chest.
A bitter laugh escaped me, hollow and sharp.
Of course.
I doom-scrolled through my phone, my thumb moving without purpose, without interest. The screen blurred. My stomach clenched suddenly—sharp, unforgiving—and the pain spread low in my abdomen.
Periods.
Perfect timing.
I hissed, bending slightly, pressing my palm harder as if I could crush the pain back inside. My breath came shallow. I hated this—hated how my body chose weakness when I least allowed it.
Footsteps.
I looked up just in time to see him enter, a small plastic bag dangling from his hand.
He walked past me.
Then, without even slowing, he tossed something.
The biscuit packet hit my face and fell to the floor.
Before I could even process it, he was already in the kitchen, unpacking the bag like nothing had happened.
Something snapped.
Fury—hot, humiliating, explosive—boiled up, drowning the pain, the hunger, the ache.
I forgot my cramps.
I grabbed the biscuit packet, marched into the kitchen, and found him standing calmly by the counter.
“You—” my voice shook with rage, “you poor peacock asshole, bat-shit, stupid nonsense idiot—how dare you throw this at my face?”
The words flew out sharp and wild, carrying everything I hadn’t said since morning.
Hunger.
Pain.
Humiliation.
I stood there trembling, biscuit crushed in my fist, chest rising fast.
“You—”
I raised my hand, the biscuit clenched tight, ready to fling it straight at his face.
But the words died in my throat.
From the plastic bag, he pulled out something unmistakable.
Instant noodles.
One packet. Then another.
My hand froze mid-air.
His gaze flickered toward me—brief, confused—before returning to the counter.
Slowly, I lowered my hand.
Straightened my posture.
Cleared my throat as if I hadn’t just been seconds away from committing murder with a glucose biscuit.
Fine.
He brought food.
Good.
He had just saved his own life.
I turned my face away, chin lifting, pretending my dignity hadn’t nearly collapsed over a packet of noodles. My stomach betrayed me with a soft ache, as if applauding his timing.
He tore open the packet, filled a vessel with water, and placed it on the stove.
The steam began to rise.
And for the first time since morning, something warm—not anger, not pride—settled quietly in my chest.
Hunger, it seemed, had finally found an answer.
I didn’t move back to the hall.
Instead, I leaned against the kitchen wall, arms folded, eyes fixed on the pot as the noodles boiled—softening, surrendering to the water. Steam curled upward, warm and faintly comforting, fogging the space between us.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he drained the water, transferred the noodles into a bowl, placed a fork inside it, and walked toward me.
I stiffened.
I was ready—for mockery, for another careless throw, for humiliation dressed as kindness.
But he didn’t do any of that.
He simply placed the bowl on the table beside me.
Gently.
No comment. No glance.
Then he turned away and went back to the sink, washing the dishes as if feeding me were nothing more than a routine chore.
I stood there.
Awkward.
The bowl steamed quietly. My stomach twisted again, but this time not just with hunger. I didn’t reach for it immediately. I just watched his back as water ran over steel, as his movements stayed steady and restrained.
I hesitated for a second… then took a bite.
The noodles slid into my mouth—soft, bland, unfamiliar.
No richness.
No layers of flavor.
No indulgence.
My taste buds, spoiled by years of luxury, protested instantly. They were used to truffle oils, saffron threads, sauces perfected over hours—not something born from a plastic packet and boiling water.
I chewed slowly, forcing myself.
I had never eaten fast food.
Never junk.
Never anything packed or processed like this.
My stomach was sensitive—pampered, just like the rest of me. One wrong bite and I’d end up nauseous, bent over a sink, regretting my existence.
I swallowed.
The food wasn’t good.
But it was warm.
And when it reached my empty stomach, something inside me loosened—just a little. Hunger retreated, reluctantly, like a defeated enemy.
I took another bite. Smaller this time.
This wasn’t pleasure.
This was survival.
This one year was not going to be as easy as I had imagined.
Not with a man who hadn’t hesitated even once before standing against a giant company like ours.
Not with a man whose family I had threatened—whose life I had cornered until marriage felt like mercy.
Whatever, I told myself, taking another bite.
The doorbell rang.
He washed his hands, wiped them on his pants, and walked to the door. When he opened it, my heart stuttered.
My servant stood there.
For a fleeting, foolish second, hope bloomed in my chest—that she would smile and say it was all a prank. That my grandfather, even in death, had merely tested me and would now let me walk away untouched.
But reality stood in her hands.
A suitcase.
Just one.
I placed the bowl on the kitchen counter and walked toward the door. He stepped aside the moment he saw me, retreating back into the kitchen without a word—as if instinctively giving me space.
“Rajesh sir told me to send you your clothes,” she said softly.
I looked at the suitcase.
Only one.
I owned wardrobes. Floors of wardrobes. Clothes I had never even worn once. And this—this was all they sent.
I hissed under my breath. “Okay.”
I dragged the suitcase inside as she left, the door clicking shut behind her like a final verdict.
I dropped to my knees and opened it immediately.
My heart raced—not for dresses, not for jewelry.
I searched frantically.
Please. Please.
Because my body chose this moment—of all moments—to betray me. A familiar ache twisted low in my abdomen, sharper now.
I pressed my lips together.
My periods had started.
I dug through the suitcase, fingers trembling, panic creeping in—not loud, not dramatic, but cold and very real.
I searched again.
Once.
Twice.
Slower this time—denial clawing at my chest.
Nothing.
No sanitary napkins.
My fingers curled into the fabric of my dress as another wave of pain twisted through my stomach. I leaned back against the wall, pressing my head into it, breathing through clenched teeth.
Great. Just perfect.
What am I supposed to do now?
In my world, this problem didn’t exist. Someone always knew. Someone always stocked my drawers before I even realized I needed them. This—this helpless pause, this quiet panic—was never mine to carry.
But now it was.
I slid down slowly, sitting on the floor beside the suitcase, knees drawn up. The house felt smaller than before. Too small. Too unfamiliar.
I bit my lip hard, pride warring with necessity.
Ask him?
The thought itself made my stomach churn more than the cramps. Him—the man I had humiliated, threatened, forced into marriage. The man I had treated like dirt.
My jaw tightened.
I closed my eyes for a second, fighting the sting behind them.
I took a shaky breath, stood up again, and stared toward the kitchen.
I walked back into the kitchen, picked up the bowl, and finished the noodles quickly—no pauses, no complaints. I just needed my stomach to stop screaming.
When I was done, I stood there holding the empty bowl, suddenly clueless.
Now what?
Do I leave it somewhere?
Do I put it in the sink?
Do I… clean it?
He had already washed the dishes and walked out of the kitchen without looking back, leaving behind a silence that made the simplest things feel complicated.
I let out a slow breath and stepped toward the sink.
I had never washed my own plate before.
Ever.
I stared at the tap like it might judge me. Then, awkwardly, I turned it on, splashing water everywhere at first. I fumbled, wiped, rinsed—doing something that vaguely resembled washing—and finally placed the bowl and fork aside.
There.
Done.
I wiped my hands on my dress, feeling oddly unsettled, and walked toward the restroom.
I opened the door.
And froze.
Indian toilet.
My soul left my body.
“Oh my god,” I muttered, facepalming myself.
This day just kept getting better.
I had no choice. No escape route. No alternative. I checked myself again, heart sinking—
Yes.
My period had started.
I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes, a tired laugh threatening to break out.
Luxury gone.
Control gone.
Comfort gone.
And now this.
Standing in a stranger’s house, dealing with something so painfully ordinary.