Bound by Hate

The night wrapped Aarav Malhotra's mansion in a shroud of stillness, the kind of quiet that pressed against the soul like a weight too heavy to bear. Vritika Sharma lay sprawled across the four-poster bed, her crimson lehenga a tangled mess around her legs, the golden zari dulled by the dim glow of a single bedside lamp. The silk sheets beneath her were cool, a stark contrast to the heat of her tears, which had soaked the pillow until it clung damply to her cheek. Her sleeveless blouse clung to her skin, the bare curve of her arms exposed as she curled into herself, her breaths uneven, punctuated by soft, shuddering sobs. The mangalsutra rested heavily against her chest, its black beads a relentless reminder of the chains Aarav had forged around her life—rules, control, a prison masquerading as a home.

Her hazel eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, fluttered shut as exhaustion overtook her, the fight draining from her body even as her mind churned. She'd screamed his name into the void after he'd left—"Aarav! Aarav!"—but the walls had swallowed her defiance, leaving her alone with the wreckage of her dreams. Her career, her independence, her plans to flee to London—all shattered like glass under his heel. Sleep came reluctantly, a thief stealing her away from the waking nightmare, but it brought no peace. Her dreams were a chaotic swirl of images—her mother's tearful face at the vidai, the sindoor staining her parting, Aarav's coal-black eyes glinting with triumph as he adjusted her dupatta, his voice echoing: "You're mine now, biwi."

The hours slipped by, marked only by the faint ticking of a clock on the vanity, its hands a silent countdown to dawn. The garden beyond the window lay cloaked in darkness, the silhouettes of trees swaying in a breeze she couldn't feel, their whispers lost to the mansion's oppressive hush. Vritika's sobs faded into shallow breaths, her body sinking deeper into the mattress, the pillow sodden beneath her head. She slept, but it was a restless slumber, her fingers twitching as if reaching for something she'd lost.

A faint creak jolted her awake, her eyes snapping open to a room bathed in the grayish hue of pre-dawn light. Her heart thudded in her chest, a wild rhythm that echoed the chaos of her dream, and she blinked, disoriented, her vision blurry with the remnants of tears. The clock on the vanity glowed faintly—4:57 a.m.—its hands stark against the ivory face, a cruel reminder that time marched on, indifferent to her plight. She rubbed her eyes, the sting of salt lingering on her lashes, and pushed herself up, the lehenga rustling as it slid off the bed, pooling on the floor like spilled blood.

Then she saw him.

Aarav stood across the room, near the window, his silhouette framed by the soft light filtering through the curtains. He was awake, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. His dark hair was tousled, a rare hint of disarray, and his coal-black eyes were fixed on the garden beyond, his jaw set in a line that spoke of restless thoughts. He hadn't returned last night—she'd waited, her anger simmering into despair—but here he was, a silent intruder in her fragile peace.

Vritika's breath caught, her mind reeling as reality clashed with the echoes of her dream. "What a dream," she muttered, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper, her gaze locked on him. "Why is he here?" She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips as she pressed a hand to her forehead, the sindoor smudging slightly against her skin. For a fleeting moment, she was back in Lajpat Nagar, in her childhood bed, the nightmare of Aarav just a figment she could shake off. "Mom, wake me up in five minutes," she said aloud, her tone laced with a desperate hope, as if Savita might burst through the door and pull her from this hell.

But the room remained silent, the air thick with the truth she couldn't escape. Aarav turned at her words, his eyes snapping to hers, and the illusion shattered. His gaze pierced through the haze of her confusion, glinting with a mix of amusement and something darker—possession, perhaps, or the satisfaction of seeing her unravel. "No one's coming to wake you, biwi," he said amused, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the stillness like a blade. He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking faintly under his weight, his presence filling the room as it always did—suffocating, inescapable.

Vritika's hands clenched the sheets, her heartbeat quickening as she glared at him, her defiance flickering awake despite the exhaustion weighing her down. "Don't call me that," she snapped, her voice trembling but sharp. "And what are you doing here? You didn't come back last night—where were you?"

He smirked, leaning against the bedpost, his eyes tracing her disheveled form—the tear-streaked face, the lehenga tangled around her, the sleeveless blouse she'd refused to change. "Missed me, did you?" he taunted, his tone mocking but edged with a curiosity she didn't trust. "I had business. You'll get used to it."

"Used to it?" She laughed, a hollow sound that echoed her despair. "I'll never get used to this—to you. I fell asleep crying because of you, because my life is falling apart in front of my eyes, and you think I'll just... adjust?"

His smirk faded, his gaze darkening as he straightened, his shadow stretching across the bed. "You will," he said, his voice firm, unyielding. "This is your reality now. No more dreams of running, no more fighting. You're here, with me."

She shook her head, tears welling again as she swung her legs off the bed, standing to face him, her lehenga rustling with the movement. "You don't get it, Aarav. I hate you. I hate this place, these rules, this—" She gestured to the mangalsutra, her fingers trembling. "I see my dreams breaking, and you stand there like it's nothing."

For a moment, silence hung between them, their eyes locked in a clash of fire and ice—hers blazing with grief, his glinting with a resolve she couldn't crack. Then he stepped closer, his breath warm against her face, his voice a low growl. "Cry all you want, biwi. It changes nothing. You're mine, and you'll learn to live with it."

He turned, striding out of the room as the first rays of dawn crept through the window, leaving her alone once more. Vritika sank back onto the bed, her sobs returning, softer now, as the clock ticked to 5:00 a.m. Her dream had been a cruel trick, a fleeting escape from a reality she couldn't wake from. Aarav was here, her nightmare made flesh, and as the mansion stirred awake around her, she felt the cracks in her armor deepen, her breaking point drawing near.