The warm water cascaded over her, but it did little to soothe the storm inside her. Kiara stood under the shower, trembling, the tiles slick beneath her feet. Her hands moved instinctively to her hairline, trying to wipe away the streak of blood and vermillion that marked the night's horrors.
But no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn't come off. The red smudges clung stubbornly, a vivid reminder of the nightmare she had endured—the terror, the suffocating black magic, the arrows, the helplessness of seeing her father, brother, and cousin trapped before her eyes.
Her shoulders shook as silent sobs wracked her body. "Why… why did this have to happen?" she whispered into the spray, her voice drowned by the roar of the water. The vermillion, like a stubborn scar of fate, mirrored the weight of the choices forced upon her—the marriage she hadn't wanted, the love she had for Yuvaan, and the betrayal she felt in every fiber of her being.
Tears mingled with the hot water, tracing paths down her cheeks, joining the stubborn streaks of red in her hair. She pressed her palms to her face, willing herself to stop crying, but the grief would not be silenced. The danger that had befallen her family, the helplessness, the fear—it all came rushing back, sharper than the pain of any wound.
Kiara's knees buckled slightly under the weight of it all, but she caught herself against the cold wall. The blood, the vermillion, the night's terror—it was impossible to wash away. And yet, she let herself weep, letting the water carry away what it could, even as her heart remained soaked in fear, love, and helpless sorrow.
Later
Kiara stood before the ornate mirror, brushing her hair with slow, deliberate movements, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. The morning light spilled into the room, painting soft gold over the curves of her reflection, but all she could see were the scars of last night—emotional and physical alike.
The door creaked open, and Yuvaan stepped in, his gaze inadvertently drawn to the graceful line of her back as she adjusted her blouse. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, mesmerized, as if the sight had rooted him in place. Then, with a sharp inhale, he looked away, chastising himself silently for letting desire cloud his control.
Kiara, sensing the intensity of his stare, whipped around. Her eyes blazed, a storm of anger and indignation. "Stop staring, Yuvaan!" she snapped, her voice sharp as a whip. "I am not an object for your entertainment!"
Her words seemed to cut through the air between them. Yuvaan's jaw tightened, his expression unreadable, a flicker of guilt passing through his dark eyes. Kiara didn't wait for a response. She grabbed her bag, her movements brisk, her heels clicking against the floor, and strode out of the room, leaving him behind with the faint trace of her perfume and a tension that refused to dissipate.
Yuvaan exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Feisty… just the way I like her," he muttered under his breath, though even he knew today's game would not be easy.
Kiara descended the grand staircase, still adjusting to the cold stares and whispers of the Pratap Singh household. Her steps slowed as Susheela's sharp voice cut through the morning air.
"Wow, look at the time! The daughter-in-law of the house is finally awake," Susheela drawled, her tone dripping with condescension. "Weren't you trained at home that after a daughter-in-law comes to her in-laws, the very next day is her first cooking ritual? You should wake up early to appease your in-laws."
Kiara stopped mid-step, her eyes narrowing as she turned to face her aunt. "Yesterday, when I arrived," she said slowly, each word measured, "none of you even made an effort to welcome me. And now you lecture me about the duties of a daughter-in-law?"
Susheela's face tightened, a flash of irritation breaking through her haughty mask. "Sharp tongue, just like that cursed husband of yours."
Kiara's lips pressed into a thin line, her patience thinning. "He is your nephew first, before he is my husband," she shot back. "And you dare speak such things about him? This… this is truly a strange family."
Her gaze swept the cold, disapproving faces around her. Then, with a small shrug, she added, "Anyway, I'll prepare the dish. If you have the patience, you can wait. Otherwise… eat something else."
With that, she walked briskly, determined not to let the house's hostility shake her resolve. Upstairs, she met Angad, who had been quietly observing her exchange.
"Angad," Kiara said, her tone softer now, tinged with an almost imperceptible plea, "show me the kitchen. I want to do this properly."
Angad's face lit up, a small smile breaking through his calm demeanor. "Of course, sister-in-law," he said, leading her through the corridors to the heart of the household—the kitchen, where tradition, chaos, and unexpected lessons awaited.