Kavya's pov

The invitation had arrived weeks ago, printed in gold ink, tied with a red satin ribbon. It was Kabir’s cousin Priya’s wedding—his chacha’s daughter. The whole family had been preparing for months, and when his parents insisted we attend, Kabir had agreed without hesitation.

I, on the other hand, had been dreading it.

It would be the first time I faced his entire joint family since our marriage. His parents knew me, of course—they had accepted the sudden wedding with tight smiles and whispered questions—but the rest of them didn’t. To everyone else, I was a mystery bride, married into the family without notice, without background.

The journey there had been silent. Kabir drove, his jaw locked, one hand gripping the steering wheel like he wanted to crush it. I had kept my eyes on the road, clutching my dupatta, praying nothing would go wrong.

But nothing ever went right. Not with him.

The house was massive, buzzing with music and laughter when we arrived. Lights twinkled across the balconies, women in bright lehengas moved like flowers in the garden, and men exchanged loud jokes. It should have felt festive. Warm.

Instead, I felt like an outsider.

“Kabir, tum finally aaye!” his aunt exclaimed, rushing forward to hug him. His parents followed behind, faces glowing with pride. They fussed over him, asked about work, while I stood half a step back, invisible, my presence acknowledged only by curious glances.

“This is… your wife?” someone asked.

Kabir’s arm tightened briefly around my waist, his smile polite but cold. “Haan. This is Kavya.”

Just that. No warmth. No pride. Just a name.

I folded my hands respectfully, murmuring, “Namaste.”

They nodded, whispered, and moved on.

Hours later, while Kabir disappeared into a corner with his uncles, I found myself near the food counters, clutching a glass of water. My heart thudded with nerves, but then I heard a familiar, friendly voice.

“Kavya bhabhi?”

I turned to see Aarav—Kabir’s younger cousin. His smile was wide, his eyes kind. “Do you remember me? We met once, months ago. I wasn’t sure if you’d recognize.”

Relief washed over me. A friendly face. “Yes… Aarav. I remember. How are you?”

“I’m good,” he laughed. “And you? Adjusting? Shaadi ke baad life change ho jaati hai.”

His tone was so normal, so casual, I felt myself relax. “It’s… different. But I’m trying.”

He grinned. “You’re doing fine. Honestly, you look… happy. ”

For the first time in months, I smiled genuinely. Just a small one. “Thank you.”

But the moment was short-lived.

Because I felt it. The familiar burn of Kabir’s gaze.

I turned and saw him across the hall, staring at me like I had committed a crime. His jaw was clenched, his hands fisted at his sides. My blood ran cold.

He walked toward us, each step sharp, deliberate.

“What’s going on here?” His voice cut through the music, through the laughter, like a knife.

Aarav blinked, confused. “Bhai… we were just—”

“Just what?” Kabir’s eyes snapped to me, fury blazing. “What the fuck were you doing, Kavya?”

I froze. “I… we were just talking…”

“Talking?” His laugh was bitter, cruel. “Talking to my cousin like that? Smiling like some cheap whore?

Aarav’s face went pale. “Bhai, she wasn’t—”

“Shut up, Aarav.” Kabir’s voice thundered. “You don’t know her. You don’t know what she is.”

My chest constricted, humiliation burning hotter than fire. My cheeks burned, my eyes filled. “Kabir, please… stop…”

But he didn’t stop. He never stopped.

“You think I don’t see it? The way you look at men? The way you talk to them? Once a whore, always a whore. Isn’t that right, Kavya?”

The words hit me harder than a slap. My knees weakened, my vision blurred.

Before I could react, he grabbed my wrist in a brutal grip. “Enough. Upstairs. Now.”

“Kabir, please—”

“NOW!” he barked, dragging me through the stunned crowd. I stumbled behind him, my dupatta slipping, my heart hammering. My tears blurred the bright decorations, the golden lights.

He didn’t stop until we reached the upstairs hallway, dark and quiet. He shoved open a door, pulling me into what must have been his childhood bedroom—posters still peeling on the walls, the bed neatly made.

He slammed the door shut and turned on me, eyes blazing.

“What the fuck do you think you were doing?” he roared.

I shook my head, tears streaming. “Kabir, I swear… I wasn’t doing anything. He’s your cousin—”

“Cousin?!” His laugh was hollow, bitter. “That makes it worse. Tum meri family ke saamne bhi apni gandi aadatein chhod nahi sakti?”

“No… please… it’s not—”

He stepped closer, trapping me against the wall, his hands slamming beside my head. “Do you think I’m blind? You were smiling at him. Smiling. Like you used to smile at those men.”

I flinched. “Stop… please…”

“You disgust me,” he spat. “Every time I look at you, I remember exactly where I found you. In a fucking brothel. Do you think you can wash that filth away with a mangalsutra? With sindoor?”

My chest broke, sobs tearing through me. “Kabir… don’t say that…”

He leaned in, his voice low, venomous. “Whore. Slut. Dirty. That’s all you are. And don’t you dare forget it. You belong to me now, and I’ll make sure you never look at another man again.”

I gasped, covering my mouth, trembling.

His words weren’t just insults. They were chains. Chains that wrapped tighter and tighter, cutting off every breath, every ounce of hope.

And in that moment, standing in his childhood bedroom surrounded by memories of who he used to be, I realized the terrifying tr

uth: Kabir would never let me escape. Not my past. Not him. Not his hatred.

And I… would never be free.