The Night She Didn't Sleep đź–¤
"He didn't chain her hands. He chained her control."
She didn't walk into the room.
She was pushed in.
Hard.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Aarush leaned against it. Silent. Watching. Amused.
Bhuvanya turned, fists clenched.
"Get out."
He said nothing.
The room was freezing—black curtains drawn, a single spotlight over the blood-red bedsheets, casting eerie shadows across the mirror.
She backed up toward the corner, arms folded tight.
"You said you won't touch me," she whispered.
Aarush chuckled softly.
Not loudly.
Just enough to make her skin crawl.
"I won't. Touching is for people who crave. I don't crave. I own."
She shivered—not from cold, but from the way his voice twisted around her ears like smoke.
He walked toward her.
Not rushed.
Not dramatic.
Just calm.
The most terrifying kind of calm.
She backed into the wall.
He stood inches from her.
"I don't need to touch you, Bhuvanya. You'll destroy yourself just fine."
He raised his hand—
She flinched.
But he didn't touch her.
He just held the black satin nightdress in front of her face.
"Wear this."
"I'm not your doll."
"Exactly." He dropped it at her feet. "Dolls don't fight back. You do. That's why breaking you will be so… satisfying."
She glared at him.
"I'll sleep in this. I don't need your silk horror costume."
He raised an eyebrow, casually walking toward the bed and sitting down.
He leaned back, head resting against the wall.
"Change."
"In your dreams."
"I don't dream. I design."
She didn't move.
"You want me to step out?" he asked casually.
"So you can feel safe?"
He laughed quietly.
"Darling, this house is me. There's nowhere safe."
Her breath grew ragged. She picked up the nightdress and turned away. Her fingers trembled.
She changed in silence.
And even though he didn't look—
She knew he was listening.
The sound of fabric dropping. The zipper. Her uneven breath.
And then—
His voice, low and deadly:
"You looked better before. The hate made you glow."
She whipped around.
"I'm not your prisoner."
"No. You're my wife."
"Same thing."
She grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at him with all her strength.
It hit his chest.
He didn't move.
Just stared. Then—
He smiled. The kind of smile that ends childhoods.
"I like it when you throw things. The wild ones break louder."
That Night:
He lay on the left side of the bed. Fully clothed. Arms crossed behind his head. Eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
She lay on the right. Stiff. Curled up. Eyes swollen from unshed tears.
They didn't speak.
They didn't sleep.
They didn't touch.
But the silence was louder than violence.
And before the sun could rise—
He said it, so softly she wasn't sure if she imagined it:
"You'll beg to be touched one day. Not because you want me."
"But because you'll want to feel real again."