The guard faltered. "U-Upstairs, sir?"

Raahil turned slowly, his brown eyes flashing like the blade of a knife.

"I said," he murmured, voice low and cutting, "bring her up."

A pause.

"Feed her. Clean her wounds. Wash the blood off her face. Put her in something that doesn't smell like the gutter."

The man hesitated. "But... sir, she—"

Raahil stepped forward, each footfall echoing like a warning.

"She's mine now."

Not affection. Not desire. Just ownership—cold and cruel.

"Not because I want her," he added, his gaze narrowing into something far more dangerous. "But because I want the world to witness what happens when someone laughs at Raahil Raizada."

He didn't need to shout. His quiet was louder than most men's rage. And in that silence, something shifted in the air—like the moment before lightning strikes.

In the basement, 

They dragged her out of the basement like a broken marionette. Her body sagged between them, limbs limp and uncooperative. Her legs tried to hold her weight but collapsed every few steps. She wasn't walking — she was being carried, barely tethered to the world.

The corridor blurred into a smear of stone and shadow. The ceiling lights stung her swollen eyes. Her ears rang with silence that wasn't really silence — it was her own pulse, loud and erratic in her skull.

Pain lived in her bones now. Fear lived in her blood. She didn't ask where they were taking her. Because it didn't matter anymore. Until the air changed.

It was warmer here. Clean. Scented with rich cologne, aged wood, leather polish, and something darker — something masculine and suffocating.

They stepped into a grand, gold-lit room, and for a moment, she thought she was hallucinating. Tall windows draped in velvet. Bookshelves lined with ancient tomes and strange artifacts. A fireplace flickering with quiet menace. A bed in the corner — too large, too neat, like no one had ever dared touch it. Rugs so thick her bare feet didn't even make a sound.

It was beautiful....Too beautiful...Raahil Raizada didn't live in rooms. He ruled domains. They let her go in the middle of the room. She swayed, dazed and bloodied, still dressed in her ruined kurta. A thin cut traced her cheek, dried blood cracking with every movement.

Two women entered. Maids — older, silent, grave-faced. They looked at her the way people looked at roadkill — with a strange combination of pity and revulsion.

"Sit," one said softly.

She obeyed. Not out of fear, not out of obedience — but because she didn't have the strength not to. They began to clean her. Warm water on a cloth. Gentle swipes over her bruised arms, her dirt-smeared neck. A brush passed through her tangled hair like a whisper.

They didn't say a word. Didn't ask who she was. Didn't ask what had been done to her. Because they already knew. And it wasn't their place to care. A third woman arrived with a folded dress — soft cotton, pale blue, simple but new.

They stripped her silently, like she was porcelain — cracked, but still useful. They redressed her like a doll. A quiet thing to be presented, not protected.

Then came the tray. Food. Hot, fragrant, home-like — but this wasn't home. Roti. Sabzi. Rice. A glass of water. Her stomach clenched at the smell. Her hands trembled as she reached for a piece. She didn't even realize she had taken a bite until his voice sliced through the air behind her.

"You're lucky, Innaya."

She froze mid-chew. That voice was unmistakable. Low. Sharp. Tainted with amusement and malice.....Raahil.

She turned slowly. He was sitting in the corner, one leg crossed, arms draped over the throne-like chair as if he'd been there all along — watching her humiliation with the patience of a predator.

He stood now...Every step toward her deliberate. Measured. She looked up at him, face pale, lips parted, like a deer waiting for the final blow.

"Lucky," he repeated, "that I don't like girls like you."

She blinked. Not understanding.

He smiled. Cruelty dressed as charm.

"Poor. Fat. Ugly."

The words didn't slap her. They carved her. Deep. Clean. Final.

"If I did," he continued with a cruel laugh, "you'd already be in my bed. Screaming. But not from pain."

She flinched — and that pleased him.

Her voice came out dry, broken. "I want to go home."

Raahil tilted his head, like she'd said something absurd.

"Home?" he echoed. "You think you have one?"

"I do," she whispered, barely audible.

He stepped closer, leaned down.

"We burnt your home, Innaya."

The words fell like stones.

"I killed a man in front of you. You saw it. You screamed. You think I'm going to let you go? Just like that?"

Tears welled in her eyes. She clenched her fists to stop them from falling.

"You're not a guest here," he said. "You're not a prisoner either."

He walked behind her, leaned close to her ear, his breath brushing her skin like a curse.

"You're property."

She didn't move. ...Didn't breathe.

"You'll cook," he said. "You'll clean. You'll serve every man and woman in this mansion like your existence depends on it."

His hand brushed the edge of her hair, mockingly gentle. She flinched again.

"And maybe," he said, standing upright once more, "if you stop crying long enough to be useful, I'll forget you were ever a mistake."

Then he walked away. No threats. No chains. Just dismissal. The kind that came from gods or kings. And Innaya sat there, dressed in blue cotton and silence, surrounded by warmth she could not feel. Her wounds were hidden now.

But the worst part was — she was beginning to wish he'd just left her in the basement. Because at least there, her suffering was private. Here... It was going to be a performance and Raahil Raizada was the only audience that mattered.

The Next Morning,

She didn't wake up. She was woken. A sharp knock. A barked order. Then the door creaked open, and a housemaid she hadn't seen before entered without ceremony.

"Kitchen. Now."

Innaya sat up slowly. Her limbs protested. Her head throbbed. Her body, barely rested from the nightmare of the night before, felt like it had been stitched back together with trembling thread. But she stood. Because what choice did she have?

There was no locked door. No chains. She could leave the room. But she couldn't leave the house. Because if she ran — they would shoot her in the back. Or worse... Raahil would throw her to the guards like a slab of meat.

She had seen it in his eyes. That cruelty. That cold, unsmiling promise. There were no rules in this mansion. Only his moods. And if she tested them — if she screamed, fought, rebelled — he would remind her of her place in the most brutal way imaginable. She had no doubt.

The kitchen was bigger than her entire house back home....Twice over.

Marble counters gleamed under warm yellow lights. Chrome appliances blinked and purred like expensive robots. Spice racks reached all the way to the ceiling, filled with jars labeled in perfect cursive. Cutting knives hung in rows — blades sharp enough to catch the light and wink at her.

And people. So many people. Cooks in black uniforms, moving with mechanical grace. Helpers in crisp white. Housemaids with perfectly pleated sarees, trays balanced on their shoulders like art. They didn't speak much. They didn't smile. They just... worked. Efficient. Elegant. Controlled.

And Innaya? She stood in the middle of it all, wide-eyed, an alien in a land of machines. Her plain brown kurti clung to her body with sweat. Her pinned dupatta scratched her neck. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling. Her face was still swollen — bruises peeking out from beneath a thin layer of powder someone had slapped on her that morning. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes still heavy from the tears that had not been allowed to fall.

She didn't belong here. Not just because she didn't know what to do. But because she still hadn't accepted that this was her life now.

"This way," a voice snapped.

She turned to see a woman in her forties — sharp eyes, sharper tongue — shoving a heavy basket of tomatoes into her hands.

"Don't just stand there like a scarecrow. Start chopping."

"Y-yes," she stammered.

Her voice didn't even sound like hers. She found a tiny corner of the counter, wedged between a sink and a stack of stainless-steel pots. Sat down. Tried to steady her hands.

The knife was too big. Her grip was too weak. She started chopping. But her fingers were clumsy, numb from fatigue and fear. The blade slipped. The tomato squelched under her palm. Juice ran down her fingers. She dropped one. Then another.

A few girls walked past — staff younger than her, beautiful in that sharp, deadly way that this mansion seemed to breed. Perfect skin. Perfect posture. Waist-length hair in sleek ponytails. Winged eyeliner. Blouses that clung to ribcages like second skin.

They saw her. And smirked.

"Is that her?" one whispered, not quietly at all. "The girl he brought back?"

The other one laughed. "Are we sure? She looks like a maid from the basti. My god — look at her arms."

"And she's sweating like a buffalo just cutting tomatoes."

They giggled, the sound delicate and poisonous. Innaya didn't look up. She didn't flinch. She just focused on the knife. Even as it slipped again. Even as the handle fell from her fingers with a loud, echoing clatter.

Every head turned. The kitchen froze. The head cook glared. "Useless. You — mop the floor. Now."

Her face burned. Shame crawled up her neck like fire ants. She bent down wordlessly, picking up the knife with shaking hands, then the mop that was shoved toward her. Her knees creaked. Her stomach churned.

No one helped her. No one pitied her. Because in this house, pity was a luxury no one could afford. Tears pressed behind her eyes, but she blinked them away. Not now. She wouldn't cry here. Not in front of these people. Not while they stared at her like she was some dirty thing that Raahil Raizada had dragged in to amuse himself.

This was just Day One. And already, she was at the bottom of the food chain. Invisible. No — worse. Visible for all the wrong reasons.

Too fat.....Too scared....Too soft. She didn't fit. Not into this kitchen. Not into this mansion. Not into Raahil's cold, glittering world where beauty was a weapon and silence was survival. She was just a girl with a bruised face, calloused hands, and a heart that — despite everything — still wanted to believe in kindness.

And that made her dangerous. Because kindness was weakness here. And hope? Hope was the first thing they would break. Piece by piece. Until even that light inside her went dark.