𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟕:- 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝-𝐔𝐩 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭

【Ａｕｔｈｏｒ＇ｓ　ｐｏｖ：】

His gaze travels down her frame, uninvited but deliberate. The silk of her sari hugs her body like it's made for war. Gold bangles jingle faintly on her wrists-delicate yet defiant, like her. And a smudge of turmeric on her cheekbone-out of place, yet so heartbreakingly real.

As if love still lives in the small, messy corners of her.

As if she's still holding on to a home that burned long ago.

After being humiliated to the bone, she still asks, voice soft and stupidly tender,

"Did you eat breakfast?"

She knows the venom waiting on his tongue, but love is the most intoxicating poison-

It blurs the lines between pain and devotion until you forget which side you're on.

"Breakfast?" he scoffs, eyes darkening like a storm rolling in.

"Oh, you mean the meal you so thoughtfully prepared for me yesterday... only to have me toss it aside like the trash it was?"

He pushes off the doorway, his strides slow and deliberate.

A predator.

She can feel the heat of him before he even reaches her. It wraps around her like fire-burning, warning, wanting.

"Don't pretend to care about my appetite, Vania."

His voice cuts lower, crueler.

"We both know you're just trying to butter me up. Trying to make me forget what a nuisance you are."

His lips brush dangerously close to her ear, voice dropping into a menacing whisper.

"It won't work."

He's drunk. She can smell it-whiskey laced with regret.

But it's not the alcohol that makes him cruel.

No, that part is all him.

Still, she speaks. Still, she dares.

"I left the place so you could eat."

Her voice trembles, but her eyes don't.

"You have countless servants to serve you food, yet you didn't eat? Why?"

And just like that-he snaps.

Rudraksh's eyes narrow like a blade unsheathed.

His hand slams down on the countertop, rattling the glass.

The air thickens.

"How dare you question my authority!" he snarls, turning sharply to face her.

For a moment, his anger isn't loud-it's deadly. Like silence before a gunshot.

"These servants are nothing but pawns-disposable tools meant to cater to my every whim."

His voice drips disdain, but there's something deeper underneath. Something raw.

"They don't understand me... they don't know what I truly need."

He steps closer.

Closer.

Until the space between them disappears.

Until she feels caged between the marble counter and the man she once believed was her forever.

"But you..."

His voice dips again, not soft-but dangerous.

"You think you do, don't you?"

A bitter smirk lifts the corner of his lips-cruel, cynical, and laced with something deeper he'll never name.

"You believe you can read my mind. That you know exactly what I crave."

His breath brushes her skin like a ghost-a phantom touch that burns without flame.

And she stands there, still as stone.

Like prey that refuses to flee, because she knows the predator before her... is also the man she loves.

The man who hides behind teeth bared in anger, behind the suit and scotch and pride.

And the fucked-up part?

He knows she sees him.

And he hates her for that.

Then-vania speaks.

Calmly. Casually. Cutting through his storm like a silk blade.

"Still drunk? Wow, Rudra. I really didn't know you were like this. You drink on an empty stomach? Amazing."

His name itself carries storms. But right now? That one sentence pierces deeper than any bullet.

His pride jerks awake like a beast stabbed mid-slumber. His jaw clenches, and the scowl that pulls at his mouth could ignite war.

He straightens his spine, towering over her like wrath carved into flesh. His chest rises and falls with fury that trembles on the edge of something more dangerous-hurt pride.

"Drunk?" he repeats, voice like gravel dragged over fire. "I'm far beyond that, sweetheart."

He leans in closer, his voice a low growl dripping with heat and venom.

"I'm a man consumed by my desires. And right now, those desires don't include listening to your fucking lectures on responsible drinking."

With a sudden movement, he grips her chin-not to hurt, but to own.

His thumb presses against her skin, forcing her to look up into the storm that rages in his eyes.

"You should be grateful I even deign to share a roof with you. Let alone give a damn about your opinions on my well-being."

And then-his other hand.

It finds her waist.

Bold. Possessive. Intimate in a way words never could be.

Her breath catches.

His touch... it betrays his cruelty.

It's not cold.

It's not indifferent.

It's warm. Real. A touch that claims.

And her heart? That foolish, battered thing-it bleeds under his harsh words... but flutters at his warmth.

This is the first time someone has touched her like this. And it had to be him.

The man who breaks her spirit... and somehow makes it crave him harder.

Her body leans into him before her brain can shout no.

He notices.

Of course, he fucking notices.

But she doesn't falter. She's not a girl anymore.

She's his wife-and she wears that like armor now.

"Even if you don't want me to, I will stay with you," she says, voice unwavering. "I am your wife. You can't get rid of me."

Then she steps back, her tone firm, commanding in a way that startles even him.

"Go to the dining table. The servant will serve you food. And eat it. I won't repeat myself, Rudraksh. Aur agar tumne khana nahi khaya toh... main poore din tumhare peeche chalungi. Har jagah."

(And if you don't eat food right away... I'll follow you the entire day. Everywhere.)

"Et tu sais que je peux le faire."

(And you know I can do it.)

Her love is madness wrapped in honey and thunder.

A dangerous thing.

Beautiful. Deadly. Obsessive.

He should push her away.

But his gaze flickers.

Did she just... threaten him?

His eyes darken, but not just with rage-something else sparks there too. A flicker of... admiration? Amusement? Lust?

He tightens his grip on her chin-just enough to remind her who she's dealing with.

"Oh, I'm shaking in my boots," he mocks, voice thick with sarcasm. "The great Rudra Martin, brought to his knees by his insufferable wife's relentless nagging."

But there's no real venom now. Not like before.

Because something has shifted.

She's not scared anymore. And that? That fucks with him more than he'll admit.

With a sudden jerk, he lets go and steps back-like her skin scorched his palm.

His gaze trails down her body, shameless and unfiltered.

The curve of her hips.

The softness of her chest beneath the layers of her sari.

Temptation wrapped in tradition. He should hate it.

But all he wants is to undo every pleat and taste rebellion off her lips.

He looks away.

His hand feels... empty. Hollow. Like he just gave away more than he took.

What the fuck is happening to me?

"You're right, though," he mutters finally, voice lower, laced with reluctant surrender. "I shouldn't risk further... indiscretions."

He walks toward the dining table like a king dragging chains of his own making. The chair scrapes against the marble, the sound sharp in the thick silence of the mansion. The servant bows slightly before placing the plates-brimming with lavish portions that look picture-perfect but taste like cardboard.

Rudra picks up the spoon, chewing mechanically, his jaw ticking.

The food is bland. Tasteless. Soulless.

Just like everything else in this cursed house without her voice echoing through it.

He spent years in France, dining in Michelin-starred restaurants, feeding on finesse and flavor-but since he returned weeks ago, it's been Vania's hands that have carved meaning into his meals. Masala that sings. Spices that sting. A sprinkle of something almost like home.

But no.

Not anymore.

He made a fucking rule-he doesn't eat what she cooks. Because accepting her food means accepting the warmth she dares to give him. And that... terrifies him more than death itself.

So he swallows the blandness. Forces it down.

Punishment. Penitence.

And a lie he tells himself.

But today... he can't even do that.

He pushes the plate away, the clang of metal against china echoing like the sound of retreat. Appetite gone. Resolve-cracking.

He rises from his seat like a storm reborn, walking to the wide window that overlooks the garden. The sun casts long shadows on the earth below, where once she had walked barefoot in the rain, laughing like a woman who didn't know pain.

But she does now.

Because of him.

His jaw tightens. His knuckles whiten against the windowsill. And somewhere deep inside that cruel chest, a single thoug

ht whispers:

She deserves better.

He shuts it down like every goddamn emotion he's ever buried.

"Vania."

The word slips from his lips like ash-flat, devoid of warmth.

"Come here."