We change slowly. My body still feels sore and weak, like I’m stitched together with pins and needles. But I manage with the help of Rudra. He slowly slides down his hoodie on me. He has strictly forbidden me from wearing any of the traditional clothes. Not because he doesn't like them, but because it's difficult to move myself so much and he doesn't want to see me in pain.
“Let’s go,” he says, taking my hand as we walk out of the room and down the hallway.
We get into the car, and Rudra drives slower than usual, extra careful with every bump and turn. I’m grateful for that. “Shivani,” he calls out to me, and I turn to look at him.
“Yeah?”
“Remember—you’re still recovering. If you feel tired or unwell, we leave immediately. No questions.” I nod. I already know he won’t take no for an answer if I even look faint.
We pull up outside a shabby-looking bungalow. It’s quiet, tucked away, almost forgotten by the world. Rudra unbuckles my seatbelt and helps me out gently. His fingers don’t leave mine as we walk toward the door.
Each step feels heavier than the last. Part of me wants to see my father. The other part wants to run far away from here and never look back.
But I keep walking. Because some things need to be said—face-to-face.
There are a few men around—scary-looking, built like they’ve done this kind of thing before—but none of them even glance at me. They don’t have to. Rudra’s with me. He doesn’t say a word, just leads me forward, his presence solid and quiet. He opens the door and guides me inside.
The room is stark and cold, with peeling paint on the walls and a faint, musty smell that makes my stomach churn. There’s a single overhead light, flickering like it’s given up on life but hasn’t quite died yet. Shadows stretch along the corners, eerie and unsettling. And right in the center, there’s a worn-out wooden chair. He’s sitting there. My so-called father. This looks like a scene out of a Bollywood movie.
He looks… ruined. Disheveled, gaunt, like life’s been kicking him every day and he just let it. His clothes are torn and dirty, his hands bound tightly to the arms of the chair. He lifts his head as we walk in, and his eyes meet mine—dark, narrowed with recognition.
A chill races down my spine. His hair is matted, and deep, ugly shadows linger under his eyes. The whole room feels suffocating. Heavy. Like it remembers everything that’s ever gone wrong here. Like it knows violence too well.
He sneers. "Well, if it isn’t my precious daughter," he spits out, voice full of nothing but contempt.
I flinch. His tone hasn’t changed. Still venomous, still mocking. Rudra’s fingers snake through mine as he grips my hand tight in quiet support. I glance at him, grateful he’s here.
The man in front of me shifts, the chair creaking under his weight. "My, my," he drawls. "You definitely look uglier than before." The words hit harder than I expect, but I don’t react. I can’t give him that satisfaction. Instead I stand a little taller.
Rudra signals the guard to wait outside. He sets his gun on the table beside us—maybe as a warning, maybe just in case. The cold metal gleams under the flickering light.
"Why?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. "Why did you never love me?"
He laughs. That hollow, bitter sound I’ve heard before. It echoes off the walls like a ghost.
"I was your daughter!" I shout, louder now. My voice breaks with emotion. "You were supposed to protect me. You were supposed to love me! Not… not become my nightmare!"
His sneer deepens as he leans forward, as far as the restraints will allow.
"A daughter?" He repeats with disgust. "No. You were a mistake. A constant reminder of everything that went wrong in my life. I never wanted you." Each word is a knife, slicing through me.
"I did everything I could," I choke out, tears threatening, "to make you proud. To earn your love. But you never saw me. You never cared."
"That’s because you were never worth it," he spits. "You were weak. Just like your mother."
Rudra takes a step forward, his entire frame tense. "That’s enough," he says, voice low but sharp. A warning.
But the man just laughs. "You’re not my daughter," he growls.
My breath catches and my eyes widen. I search his eyes to see if he's lying. "You heard me," he continues. "That slut whored around, obviously. And you were born. You're not my DNA. Good thing she died."
I freeze. The words hit harder than any slap, any punishment he ever gave me. My chest tightens, and my breath shortens. It’s like everything is unraveling. All this time—every moment I spent trying to earn his approval, every scar I carry—I was trying for nothing.
I feel Rudra’s hand on mine again, steady and strong, but I pull away.
"You’re not my father," I whisper. The truth tastes bitter in my mouth as shock engulfs me.
"God, how stupid can you be?" He scoffs. "Of course I’m not."
