“You deserve a punishment!!” he announced, his voice echoing like a verdict across the room.

Priya shook her head instantly, her palms trembling, tears staining her already pale cheeks.
But there was no pity—none at all—in the eyes of her husband. Not even a flicker.

He released her hair roughly, stepping back as if her touch dirtied him.

“First… slap yourself,” he said coldly, arms folded, as if issuing an order to a servant.

Her lips parted in disbelief.
Silence.
She didn’t move.

His eyes blazed. “Slap!!” he roared, the walls trembling with his rage.

Priya’s hand raised—hesitant at first.
Slap!
Her cheek turned red.
Slap!!
Her earrings trembled with the jolt.
Slap!!!
The third one cracked louder than the rest, her body flinching with pain.

Only then… did he raise his hand to stop her.
Not out of mercy—but control. He was satisfied now.

He looked at her, still standing with lowered head, her cheek swelling already, and said coldly—

“Now take off your saree.
All of it.
And show me… how you drape it properly.”

Priya’s breath caught in her throat.

“Go!!” he barked again.

With legs barely able to carry her weight, she walked to their bedroom.
She came back in a minute—clutching 10 or 12 sarees, folded neatly. Her eyes didn’t meet his once.

She didn’t speak.
She didn’t cry anymore.
She just undraped the saree she was wearing—slowly, hesitantly.

Naked.

Standing in front of her husband like a puppet, stripped of dignity.

Her hands trembled as she began draping the first saree.
Then the second.
Then the third.

He sat there—watching. Expressionless. Unbothered.

Each drape tighter than the last. Her fingers fumbling, back aching, the humiliation stabbing deeper than any wound. But she kept going—because refusal meant worse.

He stood up, picked the heaviest saree she had brought, and shoved it into her arms.

“Wear this the whole damn day,” he said.

She looked at the heavy zari-work border, her eyes pleading.
“Ji… it’s too heavy… please…”

“It’s an order,” he replied, eyes narrowed.

“Ji… Ji…” she whispered, and nodded.

He waved a dismissive hand.
“Now go… take a shower. Make my breakfast. I’m already late because of you, bitch.”

She left the hall, trying not to let the tears blind her completely.

Inside the bathroom, the hot water felt like nothing.
Her skin stung not from the water, but from shame. Her own reflection made her look away.

She stepped out, draping that unbearable saree, tightening it around her bruised frame.
It was too heavy, every step a burden, but she didn’t complain.

She made his breakfast—burning her fingers while flipping the parathas, her dupatta nearly slipping under the stove. But still, she finished. Served it on a steel plate, and walked silently to the living room.

He was waiting, seated like a king.

She handed him the plate with bowed eyes.
He ate peacefully.

For a moment, Priya felt maybe it was over. Maybe his anger had cooled.

But as she turned away, he spoke again.

“Wait. Can’t you see my shoes are dirty?”

She paused, looked at his feet.
“Ji, I’ll get a towel—”

“No.” he interrupted. “Clean it with your pallu. The same way you were sweeping the ground this morning.”
He taunted, smirking.

Priya froze. She didn’t reply.
She sat down silently—too used to this—and began cleaning his shoe with the edge of her heavy saree.

Her pallu soaked with dust and humiliation.

He chuckled. “Good girl.
And don’t even think of removing this saree.
Wear it the whole day.
Understood?”

She nodded.

“Clean the house top to bottom.
Ma and Baba will be here tomorrow.”
And with that, he got up, grabbed his keys, and walked out.

The door slammed.
Locked.
Again.

Silence.
The kind that doesn’t comfort—but drowns.

Being a man—he always felt entitled to dominate.
He thought his wife was an object to control.
Anger was his language.
Ego, his God.

And for Priya—it wasn’t new.

Even today, she told herself—
At least he didn’t beat me this time…
At least he didn’t force himself on me…

That’s how low her expectations had fallen.

But the ache inside her wasn’t physical today.
It was deeper.

The shame. The worthlessness.
The slow death of whatever pride she still had left.

All she could do was cry—quietly. Alone.

Her life. Her marriage. The hell she called home.

And it all began the day her parents married her off at eighteen.
To a rich man.
Fourteen years older.
Because status mattered more than her soul.

They had handed her to a monster.
Wrapped in tradition.
Covered in silk.

And she… was still paying the price.