His to Hate.

Chapter - 5

For a few seconds after his words, my brain was just blank. Just like completely empty, like someone had pulled the plug on every thought I'd ever had and all that was left was static.

Welcome to your debt.

Debt.

No one could say anything. The room was full of people but somehow it felt like it was just me and him standing there and that was a terrifying feeling.

Then, reality hit like a slap.

He meant it. He actually meant it. He was not just threatening.

My throat felt tight again but this time it wasn't from fear. It was from anger, thick and bitter and rising fast.

"Parthvi," Papa whispered, voice cracking so badly on my name that it hurt to hear it. "No no, beta, you won't....."

I cut my eyes to him and something inside me snapped a little.

"You already did, Papa." I heard myself say, and my own voice sounded weird to my ears, too calm, too still. "The day you picked up that gun, you already did."

His face crumpled and for a second I thought he might actually fall forward completely, but his hands dug into his thighs and kept him upright.

That man watched the whole thing like he was observing some experiment and quietly noting the results and he approved what he saw.

"You have ten minutes." he said finally, like we were done here, like this was all settled and signed. "Pack what you can carry in one bag. Nothing more."

The casual way he said it made it worse.

Ten minutes.

To erase twenty-five years.

Mumma stumbled toward him, or maybe toward me, I wasn't sure, but she only made it halfway before her knees wobbled and she had to grab the back of the sofa for support.

"Please," she whispered. "Ten minutes? She's not a prisoner, she's. my daughter. Please...."

"She is my prisoner." he interrupted, not even bothering to look at her. "Just a different kind."

My heart slammed once, hard against my ribs.

Prisoner. I was a prisoner to my own fucking life now.

No iron bars or chains. Just one man's hatred and one wrong choice my father made decades ago.

For a second, I actually waited for someone to argue with him. To say something like, "You can't just call her that," or "She's not yours to take," or literally anything that sounded like resistance.

No one did.

Of course they didn't.

Because deep down, we all knew he could.

"Go." he added, voice flat, bored almost. "Nine minutes now."

He had actually started counting.

I didn't even remember deciding to move, but suddenly my feet were. One step back. Then another. Then I turned.

I felt Mumma's fingers clutch at the air just behind my arm but they didn't catch hold this time. She let out this small sound that didn't sound human and it lodged itself somewhere in my chest.

My legs carried me down the hallway on autopilot.

The house looked wrong now. Same walls, same paint, same photos, but everything was... off. Like someone had shifted reality half an inch to the left and nothing lined up anymore.

I reached the staircase, grabbed the railing tighter than I needed to and climbed, each step heavy like my body was gaining weight as I went up.

My room was exactly how I had left it this morning. Bed messy. Books open. Clothes hanging half out of the cupboard because I'd been too tired to fold them properly.

I stood there in the doorway for a few seconds, just staring, feeling something inside me detach quietly.

Ten minutes.

Okay. Bag.

My duffel was under the bed, half unzipped from some trip months ago. I yanked it out and threw it open on the mattress.

What do you pack when you don't know if you're coming back?

What do you take when the person dragging you out of your house has just told you your life belongs to him?

I grabbed the easiest things first. Jeans. Two. Three. T-shirts. Four. Five. Couple of kurtis. Leggings. Night suit. My hands moved fast but my brain lagged behind, processing in slow motion.

Every time I pulled something out, a tiny memory came with it.

The white tee I'd worn on that stupid road trip with friends.

The blue kurti Mumma had insisted on buying because it brings out my eyes according to her.

The jacket Jai bhai had teased me about for weeks because he said I looked like I was going to climb Everest not attend class.

I shoved all of them into the bag anyway because there was no time to sit and reminisce like Deepika did in YJHD.

Innerwear. Toiletries. Rubber bands. The kajal I barely used but suddenly felt weird leaving behind.

I paused in front of my bookshelf.

Rows of stories. Worlds I'd escaped into when this one felt too loud.

I skimmed over the spines, fingers trailing over familiar names.

I couldn't take them all. I didn't know if I'd even have time or mind space to read anymore but leaving them felt like abandoning tiny pieces of myself but grabbed the smallest one and it went in the corner pocket.

My hand brushed against my diary and I froze. It lay half-hidden under some papers, the elastic barely holding the cover closed. Every thought I hadn't said out loud lived in there. Every insecurity. Every fear. Every fight. Every stupid crush.

And now I was walking into the house of a man who enjoyed control. A man who could easily use my own words against me if this thing ever landed in his hands.

I pushed it deeper under the papers.

"Not you." I muttered. "You stay."

The zipper of the bag scraped as I pulled it halfway closed.

My phone charger went into the side pocket. Earphones. The stupid little photo strip of me and Jai Bhaiya from that mall booth where we'd made stupid faces years ago.

"Pri..."

I didn't have to turn to know it was him.

I turned anyway.

Bhaiya stood in the doorway, his gaze dropped to the bag, then to my face.

His breath shook. "You are not going with him."

I zipped the main compartment closed. "You heard what he said."

"I don't care what he said." He stepped fully into the room now, anger and panic all over his face. "Over my dead body, Pri, do you hear me?"

"That's the problem." I finally looked at him. "He will make that happen."

He froze.

"He won't just stop at threatening, Bhaiya," I said, and it hurt to say it out loud. "You saw his face. You heard him. He means every word."

"He can't control everything." Jai's voice was desperate now. "He's not God."

"No," I said quietly. "He's worse. He's a man with power and a reason to use it."

He flinched like I had hit him. "So what, you're just going to go with him like..." His voice cracked. "Like this? Just walk into his house and accept whatever he throws at you?"

My throat burned.

"Do you have a better idea?" I asked, more gently than I felt. "Because if you do, please, tell me. I'll happily take that option instead."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out.

Exactly.

I slung the bag over my shoulder.

"Pri, please." He stepped closer, grabbing my arms, his eyes red now. "I should be the one going. Not you. I'm the older one, I should be the one punished, not...."

"It's not about who should be punished, Bhaiya." I cut in slowly. "It's about what hurts Papa the most."

"Taking me is clean, it's effective. I am the daughter of the house, the so called supposed honour of the family." I continued.

His grip on my arms tightened painfully.

"Don't say that," he rasped. "Don't you ever say that again. You are not some bargaining chip for his revenge, Pri. You're not...."

"Aren't I?" I asked quietly.

He went still.

"Look at it from his side for a second," I continued, the words coming even though I wanted them to stop. "A man killed his mother and destroyed his father's life. That same man raised a family on the money he got from that contract. A good, loving family, but still one built on blood."

My voice shook but I didn't stop.

"If he destroys your business, you'll rebuild somehow. You'll fight back. I know you. If he touches Mumma's health, Papa will die inside anyway. If he ruins Bhabhi's name, that may somehow come back to his reputation."

I swallowed, my throat tight. "But if he takes me, there's no complaint. No FIR. No police. Because technically..." I laughed, humourless. "Technically I'm going willingly, right?"

Bhaiya stared at me like he wanted to argue with every word but couldn't find a single one to stand on.

His fingers loosened a little on my arms. "You are not going willingly." he said hoarsely. "You're going because he's holding a gun to everyone else's life."

"I know." I whispered. "And you know. And he definitely knows. But on paper? In the world outside? I'll just be another girl living elsewhere."

For a second, his eyes shone so bright I thought he might actually break down, but he forced it back like he always did. That was the worst part. My brother, who never showed weakness, looked one step away from shattering.

"I failed you." he murmured suddenly.

"You can never fail me bhai. Never. It tears my heart into two to say this, but Papa failed us.

He killed someone bhai, he killed someone and I still cannot bring myself to look at him differently.

He is still our father, I still love him as much as I did the day before.

Nothing has changed there." I confessed as my eyes teared up.

"I hate what he did." I continued, my voice shaking now.

"I hate that he picked up that gun. I hate that he took someone's mother, someone's wife for money.

I hate that because of that one decision, I am standing here packing a bag like I'm going on some hell internship with a psycho. I hate all of it."

A tear finally slipped out and ran down my cheek.

"But I don't know how to stop loving him." I whispered. "I don't know how to look at the man who taught me how to ride a cycle and saved every rupee for my birthday dresses and say, You're a monster. I can't. It's not that simple inside my head, even if it is on paper."

Bhaiya's face crumpled and for a second it looked like he couldn't decide if he wanted to hug me or punch a wall.

He chose both.

He hauled me into his chest, arms crushing around me so tightly that my ribs protested, and at the same time I heard his knuckles thud against the cupboard behind me.

"I'm so sorry, Pri." he choked near my hair. "I'm so, so fucking sorry."

I squeezed my eyes shut and let myself sink into it for exactly ten seconds.

Then I pulled back, sniffed once and wiped my face with my palm. "Okay," I muttered, tone harsher than I felt. "No more crying. I've already cried enough in front of a stranger. I'm not giving him a sequel."

Jai let out a choked huff that was almost a laugh and almost a sob. "You're still making jokes."

"If I don't," I said, "I'll start screaming and I don't think our neighbours are ready for that kind of entertainment."

We just stood there, breathing, while my bag sat on the bed like a stupid, silent witness.

A shadow appeared in the hallway again before the voice followed.

"Time's up."

It was one of his men.

I didn't turn immediately. I looked at Jai Bhaiya first.

"Listen to me," I said quietly. "You will take care of Bhabhi. You will make sure Mumma eats properly instead of just crying and skipping meals. You will not let Papa go anywhere alone. Not even to the corner shop. You will not let guilt kill him faster than age will."

His throat moved. "And you?" he asked. "Who's going to take care of you?"

Apparently a man whose favourite word is punishment, my brain supplied helpfully.

"I will manage," I lied.

Something flickered in his eyes, like he heard all the words I didn't say.

"I'm just one call away," he whispered.

"You better keep your phone fully charged then," I answered automatically, my voice trying to be light but cracking anyway.

I stepped out into the hallway.

The man who'd spoken was standing a few feet away, broad shoulders, blank face, like someone had taken the concept of intimidating and turned it into a person.

He didn't say anything else.

He didn't have to.

I walked past him.

My fingers brushed the wall as I moved, almost unconsciously, like I was trying to memorise the texture of the paint, the little crack near the light switch and all the things that had never mattered until suddenly they did.

The closer I got to the stairs, the louder the house felt, with emotions.

Fear. Guilt. Desperation.

All of it hanging in the air.

They were all where I knew they'd be.

Mumma at the bottom of the stairs, like she'd planted herself there as a human barrier between me and the door.

Bhabhi beside her, with one hand pressed to her own chest, as if she was holding herself together by hand.

Papa was still on his knees, but he'd shifted closer to the stairs, like he'd tried to crawl up and someone had stopped him halfway.

"Pri..." Mumma's voice broke on my name.

"Ma..." My voice broke.

She rushed up the last few steps and grabbed my face in her hands like she was checking if I was real. Her fingers trembled against my cheeks.

"You don't have to go," she whispered, wild and frantic. "We'll run away. We'll leave this city. We'll...."

"And where will you go that his reach doesn't?" I cut in softly. "He found us after twenty plus years, Mumma. You think some rented one-bedroom flat in another town will confuse him?"

She closed her eyes, fresh tears spilling out.

My hands came up to cover hers. "You gave me everything." I said, trying to memorise the warmth of her skin. "You taught me how to fight, remember? Humesha seedhi khadi rehna, Parthvi. Zindagi jhukayegi par tu nahi jhukna."

Her shoulders shook harder at her own words thrown back at her.

"I'll be okay." I lied again. I was becoming very good at that today. "I'll eat. I'll sleep. I'll adjust."

She let out a broken laugh that was more pain than amusement. "You hate adjusting."

"I know," I smiled weakly. "So he's already in trouble."

She pulled me into another hug, this one shorter, sharper, like she was afraid if she held me too long, she'd never let go. When she finally did, Bhabhi stepped forward, eyes swollen, nose red.

"Call me if you can," Bhabhi whispered, voice shaking. "Even if you just breathe and hang up, I'll know you're okay."

I nodded mutely and hugged her too.

Then I turned to Papa.

For a second, I couldn't move. My feet felt glued to the floor.

He looked up at me like he was praying. Like I was both his punishment and his prayer.

"I am sorry, beta." he rasped, the words cracking under their own weight. "I am sorry, I am sorry, I am...."

"Stop." I cut in, because if he kept repeating it, I would break.

He did.

I sank down in front of him, ignoring the way my injured foot protested.

"We don't have time for an apology, Papa." I said, blinking fast. "So I'm going to say this once and you're going to listen."

He nodded rapidly, like a child.

"You did something unforgivable." I said quietly. "You took someone's world from them. And now that world is taking me from you."

His face twisted.

"I don't know if I forgive you." I continued, because I didn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. "But I know this. I will live and will survive. I will breathe in that man's house and look him in the eye and not let him break me. And you will help me do that."

"How?" he croaked.

"By staying alive." I said. "By not giving up. By not taking the easy way out. You do not get to run away from this, Papa. You will live with it. Every day. Every second. You owe them that. And you owe me that."

His tears fell faster now.

"I will." he choked. "I swear I will. I will wait for the day you walk back through that door and say you are free. Even if I am old, even if I am on a stretcher, I will wait."

The word again.

Free.

It hurt, how much I wanted to believe it.

I wanted to say me too. That I would wait for that day too. That I would claw my way to it if I had to.

Instead, I just nodded.

I bent and touched his feet, my forehead grazing the back of his hand. His fingers trembled over my hair like a blessing he didn't deserve to give and I didn't know how to refuse.

A shadow fell across us.

"Touching." his voice came from behind, cool and bored. "We are done here."

Of course we were.

I stood up slowly, wiped my face one last time and turned.

"Come on Miss Sharma, do not make me drag you out of here." he said and I pulled myself up on my feet.

I took a step, then another, the bag digging into my shoulder and the weight of everything else digging into my spine.

At the threshold, I paused, glanced back.

Mumma half-collapsed against Jai Bhaiya. Bhabhi holding on to both of them. Papa still on his knees, eyes locked on me.

I memorised them.

Then I stepped out.

One of his men opened the SUV door. I climbed in. The leather seat was cold like the beginning of a cage and the door shut behind me.

I could not look out the window towards my family, my life.

The engine started.

My home disappeared behind tinted glass.

And just like that, I was no longer Parthvi Sharma.

I was his consequence, revenge, his possession and a debt.