KAPOOR HOUSE,

THAT SAME NIGHT

The first slap snaps across my face so fast my breath stays trapped in my throat.

My head whips to the side. My ears ring. The floor tilts. My knees give out and the marble hits my hand ice cold and painful, like it wants to bruise me too.

Another slap.

Then another.

Then another.

He hits with the confidence of a man who knows no one here will stop him.

He doesn’t sweat.

He doesn’t shout.

He just strikes, steady and efficient.

The eight house help stand along the far wall in identical uniforms. They don’t flinch, don’t whisper, don’t lift their heads.

Their silence is heavy. They have listened to this for years.

They’ve learned that the safest thing they can do is pretend they hear nothing even when they hear everything.

Blood slips from the corner of my mouth. The taste is metallic, warm, wrong. My cheeks feel swollen already, skin stretched tight over pulsing heat. Every new slap sends a deeper ache radiating into my jaw, my ears, even the base of my skull.

My stepmother watches with a sharp, satisfied look. She doesn’t blink.

“Finally” she says, like she’s been starving for this moment.

The fourth slap sends my whole body crashing down.

My skull hits the marble with a blunt thud pain explodes behind my eyes in a bright flash. My vision pulses black for a second.

Then the belt.

I hear it before it touches me.

That horrible whistle thin, fast, cutting through the air.

Then it lands.

The strike sears through my back. The pain is instant and electric, shooting down my spine into my legs. My breath shatters out of me in a broken gasp. My elbows buckle.

He swings again.

The belt carves heat across my ribs.

The next one hits my hip.

Then my shoulder.

Then the back of my thigh.

Each strike is clean , deliberate. He knows exactly where a bruise deepens, where a bone will hurt for days, where skin breaks fastest.

My ribs feel like they’re cracking from the inside. Every breath is a stab.

My back feels flayed hot, raw, alive with pain.

My legs tremble so violently I feel the vibrations in my teeth.

I try to speak. My voice wobbles out, thin and strained.

“Please, Dad I-I was j-just doing my job a-and”

The belt cuts me off mid-syllable. The hit knocks air out of my lungs. A sound escapes me small, humiliating, helpless.

The eight staff stiffen. One shifts his feet, tiny movement, then freezes in fear.

All of them stare at the floor as if staring hard enough will make them invisible.

I can feel the helplessness crushing me. It’s worse than the pain. Worse than the hits.

Knowing that eight people stand there, listening to me choke on my breath, and none of them are allowed to help, not even to say stop.

The belt lands again.

My back arches involuntarily from the force. My skin feels like it’s splitting.

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.

Endure.

Just endure.

I have survived many nights like this before, I can survive another.

He stops only when his arm finally slows, muscles shaking with exhaustion.

Then he grabs my hair and drags my face upward. Every strand feels like it’s tearing out of my scalp.

“You ruined everything tonight,” he says, breathing hard. “Singhania's won’t tolerate scandal. Jadeja's staring at you isn’t admiration. You’re nothing but a daughter I can't wait to get rid of.”

His grip tightens. My scalp burns.

My stepmother studies my injured face, expression soft with satisfaction.

“Darling, Break her pride,” she says calmly. “She’s forgotten who feeds her.”

Her words sink into me like poison.

I know what comes next.

The room.

My stomach flips with fear so sharp it almost takes the pain’s place.

“Please, Dad I’ll behave. Please don’t lock me in there. Please, please ”

He doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t negotiate.

He never has.

He drags me across the hallway. My feet scrape the floor, my legs barely working. Each step sends a deep, throbbing pain through my ribs and lower back. My breath keeps hitching. My vision keeps blurring.

He shoves me into the windowless guest room small, dark, empty.

The door slams.

The lock clicks cold, final.

“You’ll stay here three days,” he says through the door. “No phone. No shows. No contact to the outside world. You’ll get enough food and water to stay alive. Nothing more.”

Then his voice drops, low and deadly:

“Defy me again, and you’ll never walk a runway again.”

His footsteps fade.

Then my stepmother’s voice, smooth and poisonous, "Get comfortable, Sunaina Darling. No one is coming to help you."

Silence fills the room.

I sink to the floor. The cold seeps through my bruised skin.

My back throbs in waves.

My ribs pinch every time I try to breathe. My face feels too swollen to belong to me. My stomach twists with this mix of pain, hunger, fear, and a deeper exhaustion that reaches the bone.

I feel pathetic.

Powerless.

Small.

Like a thing he owns.

But beneath all that pain, there’s a tiny, stubborn ember inside me that refuses to go out.

This is his house.

His rules.

His violence.

But fate eventually turns.

And when it does, he will pay for every second of this.

EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

3 DAYS LATER,

KAPOOR HOUSE

The world fades back in through the sound of metal trays.

A doctor sits beside my bed gloved, focused, efficient. He doesn't greet me. He never does. His job is simple fix what Dad breaks. And he's been doing it since I was old enough to understand what a "bruise cream" was.

He lifts my arm gently. The IV tube shifts. My veins feel like paper.

"Hold still," he says. Not unkind. Not kind. Just emotionless.

I hold still.

He cleans the welts with practiced fingers, applying ointment in slow, precise strokes. The sting barely registers anymore. Three days without water, without food, without light my body has gone into pain and emptiness.

Dad stands near the door, arms crossed, watching the doctor work like he's inspecting a servant polishing a car.

"Make sure the marks don't stay," he orders.

"Rest assured, Mr Kapoor they won't," the doctor replies. "If she follows the routine."

She.

Not Sunaina.

Never Sunaina.

He moves to my back next. I don't flinch when the gauze touches my skin. I don't react at all.

Going numb is a survival skill in this house.

When he finishes, he places the prescription on the bedside table and leaves the room without a word.

Silence is part of his payment.

Dad leaves right after him, satisfied with the transaction.

But my step-mother stays.

She stares at me lying there IV hooked into my hand, body wrapped in white bandages and smiles like someone admiring a painting.

"You look just like your mother did," she says, leaning against the dresser. "Samiksha used to lie in that same bed after your father punished her. Same bruises. Same condition. Same stupid pride."

Her voice drips with sugary poison.

"She thought she was strong too. Thought she could talk back. Where did strength get her? Nowhere."

I stare at the ceiling. My heartbeat feels far away.

Kriti laughs softly, cruelly.

"Do you know what the difference is between you and her? Nothing. You're both pretty little dolls who always seems to forget who owns the house."

The worst part is how easily she speaks the truth I grew up around.

My mother endured this man for years. Every slap. Every threat. Every humiliation. She took it quietly, prayed through it, protected me from as much as she could.

And I didn't understand her then.

I do now.

Kriti moves closer, tapping my cheek lightly exactly where Dad's first slap landed. It stings.

"Your mother learned to accept her place. I hope you learn faster. Makes life smoother for everyone."

She leaves with the satisfied click of heels, shutting the door behind her.

The room sinks into quiet again.

IV dripping.

Bandages tight.

Air cold.

For the first time in three days, I breathe deeply.

Not because I'm okay.

Because the silence tells me exactly what my mother felt all those years she stayed.

And for the first time, I truly pity her.

Not as a daughter.

As someone who finally knows what it costs to survive him.

By the time the doctor leaves and the house sinks into its usual suffocating quiet, the world outside has stopped being quiet at all.

Mrs Kapoor opens the curtains just enough for sunlight to stab into my eyes and then, with deliberate sweetness, turns on the news.

Not music.

Not devotional chants.

Not the weather.

News.

On every channel-

"Model Sunaina Kapoor missing for three days?"

"Shivansh Jadeja's gaze from the party goes viral."

"Kapoor - Singhania alliance under threat after scandal?"

"Is Raghav Singhania being replaced?"

My photo flashes again and again - runway shots, party shots, candid shots.

I look flawless in every frame.

Untouchable.

Powerful.

Only if they knew, how powerless I am.

Completely opposite to the bandaged, bruised, half dried version of me lying on this bed.

Kriti smirks at the screen.

"Congratulations dearest Sunaina," she says. "You're famous for the wrong reason. AGAIN."

Before I can respond, Dad storms into the room.

His face is tight.

His eyes are bloodshot from stress.

This is a man who can handle violence, power struggles, politics.

But he cannot handle losing control of the narrative.

He snatches the remote and raises the volume.

"Look at this," he snaps.

The anchor's voice is crisp, brutal-

"Sources confirm Sunaina Kapoor was expected at a Singhania event tonight. Her absence has raised questions about the future alliance."

Dad throws the remote onto the bed.

"Do you hear that?"

His voice vibrates with barely contained fury.

"They're questioning me. They think I've messed up. They think the Singhanias are reconsidering."

I stay silent.He hates that. He absolutely detest my silence.

"You will fix this," he says sharply. "Do you understand? You will meet soon Raghav soon and smooth things over."

My lip splits when I try to wet the dryness there. The doctor stitched it.

It stings when I speak.

"Dad, I-I can't even walk properly."

"You'll walk," he snaps. "You'll put makeup on. You'll smile. And you'll tell them everything is fine."

His hand clamps the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening.

"Jadeja's noticing you is a problem. Singhanias backing out is a disaster. You will repair what you broke."

I stare at him, exhaustion turning my brain to fog.

"I-I didn't b-break anything."

His jaw tightens.

"Your talking is becoming a habit, and not a good one. Do you want me to fix your attitude again. "

He steps closer too close.

Mrs Kapoor watches from the corner with that same satisfied patience.

Dad leans down.

His voice drops to a dangerous whisper.

"Call Raghav today. Tell him you're unwell. Apologize. And tell him you look forward to seeing him soon."

He straightens, wiping imaginary dust from his sleeves.

"And if you mess up again "

His eyes flick to my bandages.

"You know what happens."

He leaves the room with the confidence of a man certain his orders will be obeyed.

Kriti stays behind, arms folded, lips curved.

"Don't make him angrier," she says, voice soft, venomous. "The world outside is watching. You can't afford to be weak now."

When she finally leaves, shutting the door behind her, the silence feels heavier than the noise.

My phone lies on the table.

Fully charged.

Unlocked.

He put it there intentionally.

A reminder.

A leash.

A test.

Outside, the media is screaming my name. Inside, my father is tightening the chains.

I stare at the phone until my vision blurs.

Fix the alliance.

Fix the narrative.

Fix what I didn't break.

My fingers tremble when I reach for the device.

Not because I'm afraid of Raghav.

Not because I'm afraid of the rumors.

Because I know exactly what my dad will do if I fail.

The phone sits on the table like a trap.

I pick it up anyway. I have to.

My fingers shake as I press Raghav’s name.

He answers immediately.

“Sunaina,” he says, sounding pleased. “Finally.”

Not worried.

Not angry.

Just a man expecting obedience.

“I’m sorry I disappeared,” I say, keeping my voice flat but polite “I should’ve contacted you.”

He cuts straight in.

“So? Where were you? My father was asking.”

Of course he was. Their “alliance” depends on me.

“I fainted that night,” I lie. “Too much work. I was in the hospital for three days with IV.”

A simple lie.

A believable one.

The kind models use to explain sudden absence.

Raghav accepts it immediately.

“Hm. Yes. You girls burn yourselves out,” he says.

There is no sympathy in his voice.

Only mild annoyance that his plans had to wait.

“You should’ve told me,” he continues. “I had things to discuss with you.”

Things.

Like a business meeting.

“I didn’t want to worry anyone,” I say. “Everything is fine now.”

I can tell that he likes that answer.

“Good,” he says. “Because I want to see you. Soon.”

My stomach tightens.

“Just tell me when you’re free,” he adds. “My father wants to move forward with the arrangements.”

Arrangements.

Not relationship.

Not time together.

Arrangements.

I keep my tone careful.

“I’ll meet you soon at the dinner. I only need a little more rest.”

“Take it,” he says. “But don’t take too long. I’ve waited enough.”

His voice lowers. “I expect you at your best when we meet.”

“Okay,” I say quietly.

“Good girl.”

Then he hangs up.

The call ends.

The screen goes dark.

I place the phone down slowly. My ribs ache. My face throbs.

My body is still a map of my father’s anger.

And now I have to meet Raghav, smile ,pretend and play the perfect bride for a man I never chose.

My father didn’t just tighten the chains he's planning to hand them to someone else.