The day I first arrived at Shivani Villa felt heavier than the combined weight of all the trials I had endured. The house loomed tall and silent, its windows reflecting a gray, overcast sky. My stepmother, Kavita Mehra, had squeezed my arm in the car that morning. “Remember, Ananya,” she whispered sharply, “this marriage is a gift. Do not argue, do not question. Just obey.” I nodded silently, because I had grown accustomed to life not asking my opinion ever since my father passed.
My husband, Rohan Verma, lived alone in the sprawling family estate, confined to a wheelchair after a terrible accident that no one wanted to discuss. On the drive over, servants whispered, speaking of his brilliance as a young entrepreneur and the fiancée who abandoned him when tragedy struck. When I finally met him, he did not greet me warmly. He only gestured toward the doorway and said softly, “You may stay here. Live as you wish. I will not interfere.”
That evening, as the servants left, the house felt cavernous and unwelcoming. I sat near the doorway, unsure of what to do. “I… I can help you get comfortable,” I whispered.