Please,Bholenath. When will this end? I can’t take it anymore. Now that I know what love, care, and support feel like… I can’t take this anymore. Please make it stop!
“Shhh. I’m right here, baby. Take your time; it’s okay,” he whispers into my hair, pressing a kiss to my head. His words bring momentary comfort, but the knot in my stomach tightens even more. I don’t know what to say—how to explain everything to him.
“I… I just wanted to be a good daughter,” I whisper. Tears spill freely from my eyes.
He doesn’t say much, but his hold on me tightens—as if he’s bracing himself for what’s to come and encouraging me to go on.
“I just wanted to be a good daughter,” I repeat, my sobs growing louder with each second.
My chest physically hurts, and my head pounds from crying.
“You are a good daughter,” he says like it’s a fact. But I know it all. I am not, and I can not be, a good daughter. I shake my head. That’s not what my parents think. He’s just saying it to make me feel better. They hate me.
“I’m not. Please don’t lie,” I reply quietly, wiping my tears furiously. I can’t stop them. I don’t want to cry anymore. Not anymore.
He takes my hands in his. “Stop,” he chastises firmly, then gently wipes my tears away. And it just makes me cry harder.
Why is he so gentle?
We fall into silence. After a pause of a beat, I turn to face him, and he looks at me like I’m the most fascinating thing on the planet. I can’t take that look, so I hide my face in his chest, even if it means suffocating. Heat creeps up to my cheeks as I play with his shirt, fidgeting.
“They don’t like me,” I murmur with my fingers tracing patterns on his shirt.
He stiffens for a second but quickly relaxes. “Yeah, I gathered that,” he replies softly. “They’re insane for that.”
“They regret having me,” I continue. I don’t know how to stop now. I don’t want him to think I’m weak.
“I’m lucky to have you in my life,” he whispers gently, pressing a kiss to my temple.
I shake my head and push him away. “No, you’re not. I’m just a burden on everyone. I’m not good for anything or anyone.” Negative thoughts sit heavy on my shoulders as I look at him; there’s no need to lie anymore. I know the truth. I’m not angry at him. I’m angry at the world. Maybe at myself. I turn around, facing the other side of the bed, and scoot away. He follows, closes the distance between us, and turns me so I’m facing him. He hovers above me, his eyes scanning my face. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my skin.
“Don’t say that,” he says, his voice stern. “You can't shit-talk about my wife.” And then he kisses me softly. My eyes flutter closed, and a lone tear escapes down my cheek.
“Do you understand?” He raises an eyebrow, but I don't answer him.
“They used to lock me in a dark room for days… because I scored low in math,” I tell him, eyes still shut. I don’t want to see him while I tell him about the past. I don’t want him to see me like this—so exposed.
Instead of pulling away from me, he turns me around and pulls me into his chest. My back hurts, but I don’t say anything—because what I’m feeling inside hurts more.
“They didn’t give me food. Just water… because I gained weight,” I whisper, my voice breaking as I remember the past, the words, the taunts.
“You make me feel beautiful, Rudra. But it’s hard to believe it’s not all just an act.” I cover my mouth to muffle the sob that breaks free.
“You’re the most beautiful person I know,” he lifts my chin until our eyes meet and announces like a king claiming his possession. His eyes are darker than before. He looks dangerous. But I’m not afraid.
“I don’t care if I have to remind you a thousand times. Shivani, I don’t lie, and I sure as hell don’t sugarcoat. If I say you’re beautiful, it’s because you are. And I will work hard—I’ll do everything I can—to make you see it, make you believe it.”
Then he kisses me again, his lips crashing into mine with a kind of desperation I’ve never felt before. His hands grip my face, holding me steady as his tongue invades my mouth—possessive, claiming.
I moan into him, my body giving in to his touch as we both ride on the heat.
When he pulls away, we lie down next to each other, facing the ceiling. He takes my hand in his, intertwining ourfingers and gently squeezing. He brings our joined hands to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. My eyes water as I glance at him. His face is tense, and I want to smooth out the lines creasing his forehead.
“Did they ever raise their hands on you?” he asks quietly, tension clearly evident in his tone.
The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. I can’t look at him. My eyes drift away, staring at nothing as a single tear slips down my cheek and soaks into the pillow.
“Shivani. Answer me,” he demands, more firmly this time.
