Chapter 1: The Stain of Jade

Kavya

The silence in this mansion had a weight to it. It wasn’t empty; it was heavy with the ghosts of words never spoken. Five months. Five months since Kabir Rana had pulled me from one hell and locked me in another, this one gilded with marble and chilled by his contempt.

I stood before the mirror, my fingers tracing the intricate embroidery of the jade-green saree. It was too elegant, too pure for someone like me. A gift from him, like all the clothes in my wardrobe. A constant reminder of the transaction. He had paid for the silk, just as he had paid for the woman wearing it.

The memory of the brothel, the kotha, was a festering wound beneath my skin. The smell of cheap perfume and desperation. The cruel eyes of the Madam. The night he came… My breath hitched. He had looked like a god of vengeance in the dim light, his gaze cutting through the filth and landing on me. For one foolish moment, I had thought, My prayers are answered.

How naive I had been.

He hadn’t saved me. He had acquired me.

The humiliation of last night’s dinner was a fresh brand. I had dared to ask if we could have music playing sometimes, to fill the silence. He had stopped chewing, his fork hovering mid-air, and looked at me as if I’d suggested we dance naked on the table. He’d said nothing, simply resumed eating, and the silence that followed was more deafening than before.

Tonight would be different. This saree was my armor. The color of new leaves, of life. Maybe if he saw me in it, he would see something other than the stain of the kotha.

My heart was a trapped bird against my ribs as I walked to the dining room. I took my seat, the green silk whispering around me. I folded my hands in my lap to hide their trembling.

His footsteps echoed—a sound that always made my spine go rigid. He entered, a storm contained in a black suit. His eyes, as always, scanned the room and bypassed me. He sat, a servant materializing to pour his whiskey.

But then, something changed. His gaze flickered back. It didn’t slide away. It stayed. It traveled over the jade-green silk, from my shoulder to my waist, and finally, it met my eyes. A slow, calculated smile touched his lips. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man examining a horse he’d bought.

“Kavya,” he said, my name a low rumble. “Aaj toh tum… haseen lag rahi ho.” (Kavya. Today you look… beautiful.)

The words, the first compliment in five months, sent a dangerous, hopeful jolt through me. I felt a flush creep up my neck. It’s working.

“Thankyou,” I whispered, my voice thin.

He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving me. “Yeh rang… tumhari aankhon ko aur bhi gehra kar deta hai.” (This color… it makes your eyes even deeper.)

The observation was so intimate, so unexpected, it stole my breath. Was this the crack in the ice? Was the real Kabir Rana finally showing himself?

“Main… maine socha aapko pasand aayega,” I managed to say, my courage bolstered. (I… I thought you might like it.)

His smile widened, but it still didn’t reach his eyes. They were cold, assessing. “Pasand?” he mused, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Haan. Bilkul pasand aaya. Tumhe pata hai kyun?” (Like? Yes. I liked it very much. Do you know why?)

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made my skin prickle.

“Kyuki yeh rang bilkul saaf dikhta hai. Flawless. Jaise koi dagg nahi ho.” (Because this color looks so clean. Flawless. As if there is no stain.)

The air left my lungs. The hope curdled in my chest, turning into a block of ice.

He saw the effect his words had. The false warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a mask of pure venom. In one fluid, terrifying motion, he was out of his chair. He moved behind me, and before I could react, his hand was fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so violently I saw stars. A sharp cry escaped my lips.

His face was inches from mine, his breath hot on my ear. “Lekin hum dono jaante hain na, Kavya? Ki asliyat kya hai.” (But we both know the truth, don’t we, Kavya? What the reality is.)

Tears of pain and shame welled in my eyes. “Chhodiye mujhe kya kr rhe h kabir ,” I pleaded, my voice breaking. (Let go what are you doing Kabir)

“Chhod doon?” he hissed, tightening his grip. “Jis cheez ko maine paisa dekar khareeda hai, use main kabhi chhodta hoon kya?” (Let you go? Do I ever let go of something I’ve bought with my money?)

He shook my head slightly, his voice dripping with contempt. “Yeh naatak band karo. Yehan koi deewana nahi hai jo tumhare is haseen chehre se mohit ho jaayega. Main woh aadmi nahi hoon jo tumhare liye kotha ke bahar intezaar kar raha tha.” (Stop this acting. There is no madman here who will be enchanted by your beautiful face. I am not the man who was waiting for you outside the brothel.)

The direct mention of the kotha was a knife to my soul. It was the weapon he always used to flay me alive.

“Tumhare andar ka aag dikhana chahti ho?” he snarled. “Woh aag toh maine pehle din hi dekhi thi, uss gande kamre mein, tumhe apne aap ko bachane ki koshish karte hue. Woh aag bhi ek din bujh jaati agar main nahi aata.” (You want to show me the fire inside you? I saw that fire the first day, in that dirty room, as you tried to save yourself. That fire would have also been extinguished if I hadn't come.)

He released my hair with a shove. I slumped forward, sobbing, the beautiful jade silk now feeling like a shroud of my humiliation.

He stood over me, a dark shadow of disgust. “Utho. Jaakar yeh kapde utaar do. Yeh rang tumpar suit nahi karta. Kal tak main tumhe firse kaale kapde mein dekhna chahta hoon. Woh tumhari aukaat dikhata hai.” (Get up. Go and take these clothes off. This color doesn't suit you. By tomorrow, I want to see you in black clothes again. They show your true worth.)

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing his finality.

I was left alone, my tears falling onto the flawless green silk, creating dark, shameful stains. He hadn’t just rejected me. He had taken the one thing I had left—my hope—and ground it into dust with the heel of his reminder.

I was not his queen. I was his purchase. And a man always despises a reminder of his own depravity.