Priya clutched the file close to her chest and dashed out of their apartment, her bare feet hitting the cold floor as sh ran. Her blouse was hastily buttoned, her modesty barely itact. She wasn’t even wearing a bra beneath the tight cotton blouse—the curves of her body unmistakable though the fabric.

The pleats of her faded saree had loosened during her rush, and her pallu dragged behind her like a forgotten ribbon, collecting dust as it swept the tiled floor of the corridor.

Her hair was a tangled mess, half pulled to one side, and the marks from last night—those deep, purple love bites across her neck and collarbone—were now clearly visible under the morning sun. It wasn’t just her clothing that looked disheveled, it was her entire being—radiating the aftertaste of a night filled with lust and a morning steeped in carelessness.

She spotted Sudheer just as he was about to open his car door in the parking lot below.

“Sudheer!” she called out, breathless.

His body froze.

He turned.

His brows furrowed. His lips pressed into a tight, furious line. His jaw clenched hard enough to show the veins in his neck.

The sight of his wife running toward him in that condition—hair flying, one side of her blouse revealing a trace of cleavage, pallu hanging off lazily—burned a hole through his pride. In a building full of high-class professionals and poised wives, she looked like a woman straight from some village alley, unaware of the shame she dragged behind her like her trailing saree end.

What infuriated him more than her appearance was the sound of his name echoing through the residential complex.

He hated it.

He believed a wife belonged to her husband—not just in love, but in voice, in body, in name. And Priya had just yelled his name like they were equals.

He glanced at the balconies.

There were eyes—some curious, some judgmental, some mocking. Even the old watchman squinted at her, then quickly turned away.

Priya, unaware of the volcano she had just triggered, reached him with a gentle smile and handed him the file.

“Here—you almost forgot it.”

Sudheer didn’t take the file. Instead, he took out his phone, eyes still fixed on her.

“I’ll be an hour late,” he said flatly, then ended the call.

Priya’s smile faded. Her fingers trembled.

He grabbed her wrist with force and without uttering another word, pulled her toward the elevator.

She stumbled behind him, trying to keep her pallu in place as the lift doors closed behind them. The silence inside was deafening—her heartbeat thumped in her chest like a war drum.

They reached the fourth floor.

Sudheer yanked her out, dragged her to their apartment, flung the door open, and shoved her inside before slamming it shut and locking it with a thud that echoed off the walls like a gunshot.

Priya stumbled against the shoe rack and barely regained her balance. Her eyes widened in fear as she turned to face her husband.

He was seething.

The veins on his forehead were bulging, and his breath came out in hot, uneven bursts. His tie hung loosely around his neck. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from rage barely contained.

“S-Sudheer... I–I was just—” she began, voice trembling.

“Don’t take my name!” he bellowed, eyes blazing. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you, Priya? My name stays inside these four walls. Do you have any fucking shame?”

She froze.

She had yelled his name.

In the heat of her intention to help him, she had crossed a line.

Sudheer paced once before collapsing onto the sofa with a heavy thud. His fingers reached for his belt, and Priya’s stomach churned with dread.

“Come here. Look at yourself.” he growled, unfastening his belt and throwing it aside.

She stood like a punished child, hands trembling as she clutched the pallu to her chest. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her lips quivering.

He pointed at her with pure disgust.

“You call this a woman of a man who earns six digits monthly? Dressed like some third-class slum girl—what the hell is this?” His voice cut through her skin like shards of glass. “I work all day so you can wear this filth and flaunt yourself like a street girl?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She tried to speak—tried to reason—but all that came out was a meek, “S-sorry... I didn’t think... I just wanted to—”

“Shut up,” he spat, rising from the sofa in one swift move.

She stepped back instinctively.

But he was faster.

His hand gripped her hair at the scalp, yanking her face up to his. She cried out from the pain, her tears falling freely now. Her eyes locked with his, searching—begging—for a shred of compassion that had long since vanished.

“You want attention from the men outside?” he hissed. “You want to parade your fucking body like that? You want to be seen like a whore in this entire building?”

“N-no! I swear—Sud—sir, I didn’t mean—”

“Don't. Say. My. Name.” he thundered again, shaking her head in his grip like a warning.

Her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall.

She couldn't.

She knew if she did, the punishment might worsen.

“I'm your husband, Priya. Not some friend whose name you shout in public like it means nothing.”

Her lips trembled, words dying at the edge of her mouth.

Sudheer let go of her hair with a shove, sending her stumbling against the dining table.

She clutched its edge, breathing heavily, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

He stood over her, still towering with rage.

“Next time you step outside that door like that... next time you forget your place... you’ll be stripped of even the respect I pretend to give you.”

“Ahh… Sudheer—ji! It hurts! Please… chhod dijiye…”
Her voice cracked, drenched in pain and tears, but he didn’t budge.

Instead, his grip hardened like steel. His jaw clenched, eyes filled not just with rage but a possessive ego that couldn't stand defiance—not even in the form of an unintentional mistake.

“You want to act like a whore, is that it?” he hissed, yanking her closer. “Flaunting your skin in front of the whole damn building? Do you even realise who I am—what status I hold here?”

Priya winced, struggling to hold his wrist and loosen his grip, but it was useless. Her tears streamed freely now, pain shooting from her scalp to her chest, where his words cut even deeper.

“Sudheer, please… I didn’t realise… I just wanted to help…” she sobbed, her voice trembling, hands fumbling against his hold like a broken doll.

But he wasn't listening. He wasn’t seeing the woman in front of him—just his own wounded pride.

He dragged her roughly to the sofa, not letting go of her hair until she was forced to kneel in front of him.

Humiliated, she sat on the cold floor, her pallu twisted, her skin still exposed from the rushed morning. Her heartbeat echoed like a drum of fear in her chest, but she didn’t run—couldn’t run.

Sudheer leaned forward, gripping her jaw with a force that made her flinch. Her lips parted in pain, her watery eyes meeting his sharp ones.

“You’ll always be a fool, Priya. A backward, ill-mannered fool! This is what I get for listening to my parents and marrying a middle-class girl like you.”

His words were a slap harder than any hand could ever deliver.

A soft sob escaped her throat, and she lowered her head.
“I’m sorry… Ji… I didn’t mean to… I-I promise, I won’t do it again.”

She clutched his leg like a lifeline, trembling.
“I’ll never go out like that again… please… please, forgive me.”

But he wasn’t done. His rage hadn’t cooled.
“Not this time,” he spat, voice sharp as a blade. “You think this is something sorry can fix? You screamed my name in front of the entire building, and dressed like a street-side woman?”

He stood up, looming over her like a storm.
“You need to be taught a lesson—a punishment you’ll never forget.”

Priya shivered.
Not from his words, but from what they meant.
From how his pride was louder than her pain.

And somewhere inside her—something cracked.
Not out loud. Not yet. But deep, deep inside her.