It was the third day since the punishment. Gayatri had stopped expecting anything.

She woke before sunrise, cleaned the temple, washed the stairs, wiped railings, and swept the courtyard. Her movements had become mechanical—precise, silent, and efficient. Her hands were covered in blisters. Some had burst. Some had hardened. She wrapped them in cloth and continued working.

No one spoke to her.

Servants passed by as if she didn't exist. Family members walked past without a glance. Her presence had dissolved into the background of the house. She ate whatever remained in the kitchen — sometimes nothing. She drank water quietly from the tap. She had become invisible.

Until he wanted to see her.

That afternoon, she knelt near the staircase, scrubbing the railing, when she felt it — the shift in air. The silence grew heavier. Her body stiffened instinctively. She didn't need to turn. She knew he was there.

Digvijay stood at the top of the staircase, watching her. His gaze moved slowly over her bent figure, her worn saree, her bandaged fingers. Not with concern. Not with regret. Just quiet assessment Like he was checking whether the punishment had worked.

Gayatri lowered her eyes further, her hands trembling slightly as she continued scrubbing. She had become invisible to the entire house. But to him... She existed only when he decided she should.

Some days later, he walked into her room again. No knock. No warning. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Gayatri stood near the window, trying to breathe in the stale air. The moment she saw him, she froze.

"You missed a spot in the hallway," he said flatly. "Or are your hands too tired? Must be hard working for the first time in your life."

She didn't respond.

He walked closer, his eyes scanning her with open contempt.

"Your father used to act like you were some priceless treasure," he sneered. "Like the world needed protection from touching you."

He let out a dry laugh.

"Now look at you."

Gayatri's fingers tightened.

"What was his name?" he asked, fake innocence in his voice. "Aarav?"

Her breath caught instantly.

His lips curled. He had been waiting for that reaction.

"Oh, so the name still matters," he said mockingly. "Tell me how far did you people go?"

She stiffened.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Did he get a taste of you before he ran?"

Gayatri flinched.

"Did you let him touch you?"

"Did he ever say how it felt to touch a woman like you?"

"Heavy hands, soft belly... do you think he loved you? Or just pitied you?"

Her eyes welled up. Still, she said nothing.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice, each word deliberately crude. "Did he whisper sweet things, and you believed them? Or did you throw yourself at him hoping he'd feel sorry for you and fuck you?"

Her shoulders trembled.

"Maybe he realized what he'd gotten into," he added cruelly. "A clingy, desperate soft girl who thought one man's kindness meant love."

She shook her head faintly, but no sound came out.

"Or maybe," he continued, harsher now, "he got tired of pretending. No man wants to be stuck with someone he has to force himself to look at."

Her knees weakened.

He leaned back, folding his arms.

"And your father, he didn't even fight this marriage. You know why?"

Gayatri's throat tightened.

"Because he knew no one else would take you," he said coldly. "He handed you over like a burden he was desperate to dump."

Tears slipped down her cheeks now.

"You're not beautiful. You're a soft girl; nobody bothers to look twice."

"You're not intelligent."

"You can't even speak properly."

Each insult came slowly, deliberately.

"What exactly are you good for, Gayatri?"

Her voice cracked.

"...Nothing."

He nodded slightly, satisfied.

"Good. At least you understand."

He turned to leave, then paused.

"Tomorrow morning," he said coldly, "you'll wash the temple floors. By hand. Barefoot."

He opened the door.

"And Gayatri," he added without looking back, "stop daydreaming about past men. No one is coming back for you."

He walked out.

The room felt suffocating after he left. His cruelty wasn't loud. It wasn't violent. It was slow, humiliating, and designed to break her piece by piece.

That night, Gayatri sat on the cold floor of her room.

The marble had long lost its chill—or maybe her body had stopped feeling it. The walls seemed closer than usual, as if the room itself were shrinking around her.

She wasn't crying. She couldn't. The tears had dried somewhere between humiliation and exhaustion. What remained was heavier—a hollow silence that echoed inside her chest.

Her back rested against the wall. Her knees were pulled close, arms wrapped around them, as if she were trying to hold herself together.

The house outside slept peacefully. Soft footsteps of servants, distant clinking of utensils, faint murmurs — life continued. But inside her room. There was nothing.

No anger. No fear. Not even pain anymore. Just emptiness. She stared into the darkness for a long time before her lips finally moved.

"Maybe this is what I was born for..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The words felt foreign—yet terrifyingly true.

"To be someone else's ruin..."

Her throat tightened.

"And my own."

The silence swallowed her voice. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes. For the first time, she didn't pray. She didn't hope. She didn't even wish for escape. Because hope required strength and she felt like she had none left.

She simply sat there still as a shadow, breathing quietly, disappearing a little more with each passing second.

Outside, the night moved on. Inside, something within her went completely still.