The soup was wrong.

She didn't even know how — it had tasted fine to her. Spices were there. The vegetables 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."

The room was dim. Silent. The air was heavy with the kind of stillness that suffocates. Not peaceful. Not calm. Just empty.

The small bed creaked as Innaya sat at its edge, her legs shaking, her palms pressed down beside her like she was bracing for another blow. Her body trembled—not from cold, but from the weight of everything she had swallowed these past weeks. Shame. Hurt. Exhaustion. And now, finally, it was spilling out.

She stared at her hand. Three clean, angry slashes ran across her palm—like the world had finally decided to carve into her what it had always whispered: You're too much. You'll never be enough.

Blood had seeped through the edge of her dupatta, staining it dark. She tore a strip from the bottom of her worn cotton kurti with trembling fingers and wrapped it around the wound—tight, not to heal. Just to feel something else.

Something sharp. Something louder than the ache in her chest. Then she sat still. In the center of that cold, unfamiliar room—wrapped in blood and fabric and silence—she whispered into the void.

"Maa..."

The name came out cracked. As if her voice had rusted from disuse. She blinked. Fast. Useless. The tears still came.

"Baba..."

This time, it broke. The sound. Her breath. Her heart. She folded over, curled into herself like a child. Her chest heaved. Her shoulders shook. The mask she wore every day slipped, then shattered completely.

"I'm trying," she whispered. "I swear I am. Every single day. I'm holding myself together with silence and fake smiles and long sleeves. But Maa... I'm so tired."

She pulled her knees to her chest, her forehead resting against them.

"I don't know how much more I can take. How many more times I can be told I'm wrong. That I'm ugly. That I talk too much. That I take up too much space..."

Her gaze drifted to the door. Locked. Then the window. Bolted shut.

"I walk into rooms and feel like I'm apologizing just for existing. They don't even have to say it anymore. I feel it in the way they look away. The way they laugh. Like I'm a punchline in a joke I never got to hear."

The silence swallowed her again. But she couldn't stop now. The dam had broken.

"I miss you both so much. I miss how you called me gudiya even when I wasn't delicate. Even when I wasn't the daughter the world wanted. I miss the way Baba looked at me like I was enough. Just like that. No fixing. No shrinking. Just... enough."

Her voice trembled. It wasn't even words now. Just breathe. Just sorrow wrapped in sound. She tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling—but she wasn't seeing it. She was looking beyond it. To a sky she couldn't touch. To people she couldn't reach.

"I don't want to forget who I was. But this place—it's changing me, Maa. Every day, I disappear a little more. I'm scared that one day I'll look in the mirror and there'll be nothing left. Just a version of me that learned how to stay quiet and take up less space."

A pause. So long it almost became silence again. And then—barely audible: "I don't want to become a shadow."

Her throat burned. Her skin stung. Her soul felt scraped raw. She lay down, dragging the thin blanket over her. Not for warmth. For safety. For memory. To feel like arms. To feel like love.

"If you're listening," she whispered. "Please... don't let me disappear."

But still... She rose. Even with the pain flaring in her hand, even with sleep clinging to her lashes like ash.

Next morning,

Still... She walked. Down the long corridor. Back into the fire. Her steps echoed against the marble floor, loud in the silence of her shame. The dupatta hung loosely around her shoulders, hiding what it could—but some things could never be hidden. Not here. Not in this house.

The moment she stepped into the kitchen, the air shifted. Laughter cut through the silence, sharp and quick, like knives tossed carelessly at her feet. The maids paused when they saw her. A few blinked in surprise. Some didn't bother hiding their smirks. One elbowed another, and both turned away, giggling behind their palms.

"She looks like she hasn't slept in a year," one muttered.

"Maybe she finally realized she's not made for this house," said another.

"She's trying too hard. Desperation doesn't look good on fat girls."

The words weren't meant to be loud. But they weren't meant to be secret either. She heard them. Every syllable. But she said nothing. Head down. Mouth shut. Hands steady.

She moved to the counter. Her bandaged hand throbbed with every chop, but she didn't flinch. She sliced the onions in even strokes. Stirred the pot gently. Measured the spices with practiced care. Scrubbed the dishes with extra soap and extra silence.

Every movement was deliberate. Precise. Mechanical. Not to impress. Not even to redeem herself. Just to survive.

She had failed yesterday—the soup was too bland, and the roti was too thick. She'd seen the curled lips of disapproval. Heard the mutters. Felt the disgust like heat against her back. Today, she wouldn't fail. Today, her hands would not shake.

The soup simmered. She tasted it twice. Adjusted the salt. Crushed the ginger fresh. Let the aroma coat her like armor. But nothing blocked out the memory of laughter. Of whispers. Of the way they all looked at her — as if she didn't belong in this space. As if she never would.

Her eyes burned, but she didn't let the tears fall. She didn't have that luxury anymore. Instead, she stirred the soup. Clockwise. Just like she'd been taught. And quietly, in her chest, a sob curled up into a fist.

She missed her girls from the shelter. God, how she missed them. They had suffered too. Some more than her. Bruises under sleeves. Scars behind smiles. But there, in that small crumbling house with too many beds and not enough food— kindness hadn't died. There, they shared dreams and secrets and laughter that didn't cut. There, tears were wiped away gently. There, no one rolled their eyes when you cried. There, she was seen.

Here... She was a shadow again. Fat. Loud. Clumsy. Too emotional. Too soft. Too much.

"You should be grateful," the head maid had said once, lips curled like she'd tasted something rotten. "Girls like you don't get chances like this."

She was not a bit grateful. She was tired. But she didn't stop. She flipped the roti carefully, watching it puff. She plated the food with trembling pride. She wiped the counter twice. Still, someone chuckled near the sink.

"Let's see if she ruins dinner again."

The shame hit her like heat. But this time, she didn't let it drown her. Because she was still standing. Still walking. Still trying. And in a house where every kindness had sharp edges, that was her quiet rebellion.

The Raizada dining hall wasn't just grand — it was intimidating. A long, obsidian table ran down the middle of the marble room, set with glinting silver cutlery and crystal goblets that caught the light like shards of ice. A mural of a lion's hunt covered the far wall — too poetic, Innaya thought, for the predators seated around the table.

Raahil sat at the head like a king carved from stone. Cold. Commanding. Cruel. His brothers flanked him on either side, shirtless and lazy — like sin wrapped in expensive silk. Muscles, tattoos, and half-lidded eyes that looked at the world as if it was theirs to destroy.

Innaya walked in, barefoot and silent, carrying the tray with both hands even though the cuts on her palms still stung. She didn't look at them. Didn't dare. She placed the first dish down.

"Oh, look," Kabir Raizada — the middle one — sneered, eyes raking over her body like a blade, "the help waddles too."

His other brother, veer chuckled, picking up a spoon. "Careful, Kabir. Don't say that too loud. Might hurt her delicate, extra-cushioned feelings."

They both laughed. Loud. Mean. Like boys who had never been told no in their lives.

Kabir leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, still smirking as he took a bite. He chewed slowly. Swallowed dramatically.

"Damn," he drawled. "Didn't think piglets could cook. Must be all that sampling she does. One bite for the Raizada’s, five for herself."

More laughter. This time louder. The guards stationed by the wall didn't even blink. No one stopped them. No one ever had.

Innaya kept her head bowed, but her face flamed. Her throat felt tight. Still, she stayed quiet. Still, she served the food like nothing touched her.

"She's smart though," the veer added mockingly. "Learned her place fast. Quiet. Obedient. Like a trained cow."

"Not too trained," Kabir said with a snort, grabbing her wrist suddenly, his grip hard and cold. "Look how she's trembling. You scared of me, moti?"

Innaya froze. Still didn't look up. Kabir leaned closer, his breath hitting her skin.

"Don't be," he whispered, voice like oil and venom. "I only break girls I actually want. You? You're just a joke we forgot to laugh at."

Raahil hadn't said a word. But she felt his stare like a brand on her skin — burning, watching, always judging. Innaya gently pulled her hand back and placed the last plate. And then, like a ghost, she turned and walked out  and stood at the corner— every step calm, even though her heart was falling apart inside her chest.

But behind her, the laughter kept echoing. Louder. Crueler. Like a pack of wolves, feasting on her silence.