The soup was wrong.

She didn't even know how—it had tasted fine to her. Spices were there. The vegetables are soft. But when the tray was lifted from the kitchen and sent to the main dining hall upstairs...

It didn't take long for the explosion to return.

The head servant stormed back into the kitchen like a storm let loose.

"Who made this?"

The tray was slammed on the counter.

Innaya looked up from washing rice.

No one spoke.

"Innaya," the cook snapped. "You did the soup today, didn't you?"

"I—I just followed the instructions—"

"Too much salt," the woman growled. "And no butter. Who taught you how to cook like that? A ghost?"

"I'm sorry," Innaya whispered.

"Sorry won't save you," said a deep voice behind her.

The entire kitchen froze.

Raahil stood in the doorway.

Black shirt.

Cold eyes.

Arms crossed.

Not furious.

Worse — disappointed.

"Innaya," he said calmly, stepping closer. "You were told to cook. That means properly. Not throw ingredients in a pot like street dogs do."

Her throat tightened. "I-I tried—"

"No," he cut her off. "You failed."

And then he turned to the head servant — an older, sharp woman with steel-grey hair and steady hands.

"Punish her," he said simply.

The woman paled slightly. "Sir..."

Raahil's jaw flexed.

She turned to Innaya. "Hold out your hand, child."

Innaya looked at her — eyes wide, confused, terrified.

"Please," she whispered. "I didn't mean to—"

"Do it," the woman said again, gently this time. "Don't make it worse."

Innaya, trembling, extended her hand.

The woman took a thin metal rod from behind the counter — the kind used for stirring hot syrup vats.

She brought it down hard.

CRACK.

Innaya gasped — the pain sharp, white, instant.

CRACK.

Tears poured from her eyes.

The maids watched. No one interfered.

CRACK.

Her skin split.

Blood started to appear in thin lines.

Still, she didn't pull away.

Because she knew it would be worse if she did.

"Enough," Raahil finally said.

The woman lowered the rod, sighing. "I'm sorry, beta. I have to follow orders."

Innaya didn't speak.

Couldn't.

She just nodded — eyes glassy, face drenched in tears — and turned to leave.

Each step out of the kitchen was agony. Her hand throbbed, dripping faintly.

She didn't know how she made it to her room.

Didn't know how she locked the door.

Didn't even know when she collapsed onto the mattress.

All she knew was the burning pain in her hand...

...and the deeper ache in her heart.

"This is not living," she whispered to herself.

"This is slow dying."