The sunlight streams through the large windows, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. My eyes flutter open, and for a brief, blissful second, I forget where I am. But the heavy weight of my bridal lehenga and the cold silence of the room quickly pull me back to reality.

I sit up slowly, my head pounding from the exhaustion of the previous day. The events of the wedding replay in my mind—the coldness in Dhruv's voice, the pitying looks from the few people who bothered to notice me, and the realization that my life is no longer my own.

Pushing aside the heavy fabric of my lehenga, I stand and make my way to the wardrobe. Razia Aunty's chudas catch the morning light, the vibrant red a stark contrast to the muted tones of the lehenga Himanshi had chosen for me. Herself really. I run my fingers over the bangles, a small comfort amidst the chaos.

I decide to wear a red saree today, one of the few traditional pieces I brought with me. If I'm going to face this new life, I want to hold on to the parts of myself that matter. I drape the saree carefully, adjusting the pleats and tucking them into the waistband. The chudas slide into place on my wrists, and I let my wavy hair open.

As I reach for the door handle, it swings open abruptly, and I freeze. Dhruv stands in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light. He's dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his black hair slightly tousled. His dark eyes are as unreadable as ever, and his brooding expression sends a shiver down my spine.

He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on the red saree and chudas. "What is this?" he asks, his voice cold.

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused.

"This... this drama," he says, gesturing to my outfit. "What's with the red saree and the bangles? Are you trying to play the perfect bride now?"

I clench my fists, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm wearing this because someone close to me gave it to me," I reply, my tone firm. "It has nothing to do with you."

He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're wasting your time, Jeea. This marriage means nothing to me, so stop pretending it's anything more than a farce."

I meet his gaze, refusing to back down. "It might mean nothing to you, Mr. Rathore, but I'll hold on to whatever little dignity I have left. If that bothers you, that's your problem."

For a moment, he seems taken aback by my words, but he quickly masks it with indifference. "Do whatever you want," he mutters before stepping aside.

I brush past him without another word, my heart pounding in my chest.

The dining room is quiet when I arrive downstairs. Dhruv's dadi isn't there; a maid informs me she's out meeting some relatives who are flying back today. The thought of her absence sends a pang of loneliness through me even though I've known her for a short span of time.

Dhruv walks in a moment later, his presence filling the room. He sits at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone as if I don't exist.

"From now on," he says suddenly, not even looking up, "you'll handle the cooking."

I stare at him, unsure if I heard him right. "What?"

He finally looks up, his expression indifferent. "The kitchen is your responsibility now. I don't like the food the cooks make, so you'll do it. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—everything.I'm very particular about my meals so take notes from the current cooks."

His words hit me like a slap, and I feel my stomach churn. Images of my life back at home flood my mind—Himanshi barking orders at me, my father criticizing everything I did, and the endless hours I spent in the kitchen, cooking meals for people who barely acknowledged my existence.

And now, here I am, facing the same treatment in a new house, in a new life.

"But—" I start to protest, but he cuts me off.

"I don't want excuses, Jeea," he says, his tone sharp. "You wanted this marriage, didn't you? So do your part. Marriage isn't just a red saree and some bangles."

My throat tightens, and I struggle to find the words. "I didn't want this marriage," I whisper, my voice shaking.

He leans back in his chair, his dark eyes narrowing. "Well, you're in it now. So act like it."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. "Fine," I say, my voice barely audible.

He nods, as if he's won some unspoken battle, and goes back to his phone.

I stand there for a moment, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy blanket. Then, without another word, I turn and walk toward the kitchen, my heart heavy with the realization that no matter where I go, I'm always destined to be someone's servant.

"I'm giving you 30 minutes to make me breakfast." Dhruv yells behind me and I sigh in exasperation and sadness.

For the next 30 minutes the kitchen is a flurry of activity as I struggle to make something edible. A thin sheen of sweat coats my forehead, and the smell of burnt spices fills the air. My hands are trembling as I attempt to salvage the dish, but it's no use. I'm usually a better cook than this but the anxiety has left my mind empty and hands trembling.

The chudas on my wrists jingle as I stir the pot, their vibrant red now dulled by streaks of flour and oil. I'm not used to this kitchen; the counters are too high, the stove too modern, and the knives too sharp. In my distraction, I reach for the hot pan without thinking.

A sharp sting shoots through my hand, and I yelp, dropping the pan back onto the stove. The burn is angry and red, and tears well up in my eyes, both from the pain and the overwhelming frustration of the day.

"What are you doing, beta?" a voice calls from behind me.

I whirl around to see Dadi standing at the entrance of the kitchen, her expression a mix of concern and disapproval. She rushes to my side, grabbing my hand gently to inspect the burn.

"Oh, look at this! You've hurt yourself," she says, her voice shaking with worry. She leads me to the sink and turns on the cold water, guiding my hand under the stream. The coolness soothes the burn, but her worried eyes feel even more comforting.

"Dadi, it's nothing," I mumble, ashamed to even look her in the eye.

"Nothing? This is what you call nothing?" she snaps, turning off the water and grabbing a clean towel to pat my hand dry. "Who told you to come into the kitchen, huh? What are the cooks here for?"

Before I can answer, Dhruv's voice cuts through the tension. "She's supposed to cook," he says, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, his tone as indifferent as ever.

Dadi whirls around to face him, her eyes narrowing. "What do you mean she's supposed to cook? Are you running a restaurant here?"

Dhruv shrugs, his expression unbothered. "I don't like what the cooks make. She's my wife; she can handle it."

Dadi's face turns red with fury. "Your wife? And that gives you the right to treat her like a servant? Have you lost your mind, Dhruv? This isn't how we treat people in this house."

"She's not a guest, Dadi," Dhruv replies coldly. "She's here to fulfill her role as my wife. Cooking is part of that."

I stand there, frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. I want to say something, to defend myself, but the words won't come.

Dadi doesn't miss a beat. She steps closer to Dhruv, her small frame somehow commanding more authority than his tall one. "Listen to me, Dhruv Singh Rathore," she says, her voice low but sharp. "This girl left her family and everything she's ever known to come here, to this house. She deserves kindness, respect, and care—not this nonsense you're putting her through."

Dhruv's jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond.

"And as for the kitchen," Dadi continues, pointing a finger at him, "Jeea will never step foot in here again if she doesn't wish to. Do you understand? We have staff for a reason. If you don't like what they make, you can cook for yourself."

"Dadi, you're overreacting," Dhruv says, his tone clipped.

"No, Dhruv," she retorts. "You're the one overreacting by forcing her to do this. And let me remind you—this house runs the way I say it does. Not you."

Dhruv stares at her for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable, before turning on his heel and leaving without another word.

Dadi turns back to me, her expression softening. "Beta, sit down," she says, guiding me to a chair. She calls for one of the maids to bring a first-aid kit.

As the maid tends to my burn, Dadi sits beside me, her hand resting on mine. "I'm sorry, Jeea," she says quietly. "You don't deserve this. And I won't let it happen again."

Her words bring tears to my eyes, and this time, I don't try to stop them. "Thank you, Dadi," I whisper, my voice trembling.

She pats my hand gently. "You're part of this family now, beta. And as long as I'm here, no one will treat you like this again."

I nod, grateful for her kindness, but the knot in my stomach remains. Dhruv's words echo in my mind, a reminder that no matter how much Dadi cares, I'm still just a stranger in this house, an unwanted presence in his life.

As Dadi leaves to handle other matters, I sit alone in the kitchen, staring at the red chudas on my wrists. They were meant to symbolize love and happiness, but all they feel like now are shackles. I'm sorry Razia Aunty, I know how much love you poured into this gift but I cannot bear the look of them on my wrists now. I take them off and put them back into the box, hiding it away under my clothes.

Maybe this is how its supposed to be. Maybe I didn't deserve any kindness.