Chapter 17

The next day, for Aaradhya, fate wasn't done being cruel.

Grief had already hollowed her heart, and humiliation had stitched itself into her skin like a second soul. But just when she believed the worst had passed-when her tears had finally dried against her will-her body reminded her that suffering could take on many shapes.

It began with a dull ache low in her abdomen, subtle at first. A whisper of discomfort that soon became an iron claw tightening inside her, making her gasp and clutch the edge of the dresser for support.

She didn't need to check.

She already knew.

The maids noticed her limp, the change in her posture, the way she held her lower stomach and winced when she moved. They exchanged a brief, knowing glance, one that was older than even the haveli itself-a glance passed down from generation to generation, like an heirloom of silent cruelty.

No words were exchanged.

One of them walked briskly to the back wing. The other turned to her with a kind but empty expression.

"It's time, Thakurain sa," she said gently, her hands folded in front of her apron. "The room is ready."

Aaradhya blinked, the pain sharpening as realization dawned. "No. Please... I can manage in my own room. Just this once," she tried, her voice barely a whisper.

The elder maid's gaze faltered, but only for a second. "Rules of the haveli," she replied, with the rehearsed solemnity of someone who had long surrendered her voice to tradition. "We cannot change what the ancestors laid down."

She wasn't escorted.

She was removed.

Two maids walked beside her in silence, their arms close enough to guide her but not close enough to touch. Not anymore. She was "ritually impure" now-a walking taboo.

The hallway to the back of the haveli seemed longer than it had ever been. As if the walls themselves were ashamed, refusing to echo her footsteps.

Finally, they reached the room.

It was small, more like a storage space than a place for a human to rest. The walls were old, yellowed with age and moisture. A single, dust-coated lantern flickered above. In the center lay a thin, coarse mat. No bed. No pillow. No blanket. Just a jug of water and an old cloth folded beside it.

"This is your space for the next five days," the younger maid said with a small, apologetic bow.

Then the door shut behind her.

Click.

Aaradhya stood there for a moment, unmoving.

Then she sank slowly to the mat, curling onto her side as the cramping worsened. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying out. There would be no one to hear. And even if there was, they wouldn't come.

She was alone.

The ache in her body was cruel, but the ache in her soul was unbearable.

What had she become?

Once a modern woman, fearless and independent-now banished to a room like she was less than human. Unclean. Untouchable. A thing to be hidden away, even from the shadows of the haveli.

What hurt most, however, wasn't the room. It wasn't the pain or the isolation.

It was him.

He was only a few walls away.

Vijayendra Pratap Singh -her husband by law, her stranger by heart.

And yet he hadn't come.

Not to stop them. Not to speak for her. Not even to see her face.

She closed her eyes, salty tears slipping down her cheeks. Her hand clutched her stomach as a new wave of pain struck. The cold seeped into her bones, and with it came exhaustion. Slowly, she drifted into a shallow sleep, her body trembling with each breath.

She didn't know he was awake too.

And he was breaking inside.
.
.

The haveli was steeped in stillness.

Not the gentle hush of a sleeping household, but a stifling, tense silence. The kind that made your own heartbeat feel too loud. Crickets chirped rhythmically outside, but inside, time itself seemed to hold its breath.

Vijayendra stood near the arched window of his chamber, his eyes lost in the moonlight stretching across the courtyard. He looked every inch the aristocrat in his stillness-broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, regal even in unrest. But his mind was far from peace.

He had always obeyed tradition.

He had grown up in its folds-eating with it, bowing to it, watching his mother and grandmother disappear into the "abdoman" room each month with no complaint. He had never questioned it. Never once paused to think.

Until now.

Until her.

Aaradhya.

His wife. His fire. His punishment.

She had been cast into that room today like the generations before her-like a relic being locked away. No warm food. No touch. No dignity. All because of blood-something as natural as the tides.

His fists clenched at his sides.

He had passed the hallway outside her room thrice that day. Each time, he had paused. Each time, something inside him had screamed knock, damn it, knock.

But he hadn't.

Because she hated him enough already. Because even he wasn't brave enough to fight centuries of silence. Because maybe-just maybe-he feared she would reject him too.

But now... now it was too much.

He turned on his heel, and without thought, without shoes, without armor of pride, he walked.

The haveli's halls were dark, colder at night. Portraits of past Thakurs watched him as he passed, their painted eyes judging. He ignored them. For the first time in his life, he didn't care what they thought.

He reached the door.

Paused.

His hand hovered over the latch, breath held like a prayer.

What if she screamed? What if she cried? What if he shattered whatever fragile thread still tethered her to him?

But then... he thought of her eyes.

Those eyes that once sparked with defiance, now dull with pain. The way she clutched her stomach like she didn't want the world to see her weakness.

He opened the door.

The room was colder than he expected.

The air smelled of mildew and stillness. A lantern burned low, barely offering light. And there she was-curled up on the floor like a child, her arms folded around herself. Even in sleep, her face was twisted in pain.

No woman deserved this.

Especially not her.

Vijayendra's throat tightened.

He moved silently, kneeling beside her. He didn't dare touch her, but he reached for the cloth folded beside her and gently slid it under her head like a pillow. His hands trembled. She stirred slightly, murmuring in sleep, but didn't wake.

His heart cracked.

She looked so small. So breakable.

He wanted to gather her in his arms, carry her to the master bedroom, warm her with every inch of him. But tradition had already drawn its line in the dust.

So he just sat.

Watched her. Breathed with her. Suffered with her.

Time passed unnoticed.

Every twitch of her body was a dagger to his gut. Every silent wince was a scream only he could hear. And yet, all he could do was kneel there, like a penitent before his goddess.

Finally, in a voice too quiet for the world but loud enough for fate to hear, he whispered:

"I'm sorry, Aaradhya... I'll make this right. I swear I will. Even if I have to burn this haveli down."

He stood slowly, casting one last glance at her sleeping form.

Then he closed the door behind him.

But something had shifted.

The haveli, with all its ancient laws and whispered ghosts, felt a little less invincible.

Because for the first time, one of its own had broken a rule.

Not for pride.

Not for rebellion.

But for love.

The next morning, dawn filtered in weakly through the narrow crevices of the haveli. The air was still, cold with lingering dew, and the corridors remained hushed, as if the house itself hadn't yet awakened.

Aaradhya stirred.

Her back ached. Her stomach cramped. But something was different.

The cloth beneath her head... it was folded. Not the way she'd left it in frustration last night. Not the way it had crumpled under her restless turning. It was neater now, padded slightly beneath her temple.

Aaradhya blinked slowly.

Had someone come?

She sat up with difficulty, arms hugging her waist as a sharp pain twisted inside. Her throat felt dry, her body sore, but her eyes went instinctively to the door.

Closed.

Bolted from the outside.

But a warmth lingered. Not in the air, no-that remained as unforgiving as always.

In her heart.

It didn't make sense. And yet, she felt it: the ghost of a presence. A softness that hadn't been there before.

Had he...?

No. She shook her head.

Vijayendra would never break a rule so deeply ingrained in their blood, their bones. Would he?

And yet, something told her-he had.

Her eyes fluttered shut again. Her hands unconsciously curled into the cloth, holding it close like a secret. Maybe she was foolish. Maybe her body, weak from pain and isolation, was imagining things.

But it didn't feel like a dream.

It felt real.

In Another Part of the Haveli...

Vijayendra didn't attend breakfast.

He remained behind the closed doors of his study, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, still dressed in the same kurta he'd worn last night.

A lone servant knocked, hesitant. "Thakur sa, the table is ready."

"I'm not hungry," came the reply-hoarse and tight.

He couldn't get the image out of his mind.

Aaradhya on the floor. The paleness of her skin. The way she twitched in her sleep.

And he had let that happen.

He had let them treat his wife like a burden. Like an untouchable. Like an object to be hidden away in shame.

Rage brewed quietly inside him. But deeper than rage, shame.

He was the Thakur. The master of this ancestral palace. He could bend the rules, burn the customs, reshape the world if he wanted-and yet, when it came to her, he had hesitated for too long.

No more.

His fingers curled into a fist, knuckles white against the old oak desk.

It was time to start unlearning everything he had been taught to blindly obey.

For her.

Later That Day

The maids whispered.

Not because Aaradhya had broken rules, but because they sensed a shift.

The cloth on her mat had been touched. The lamp had more oil than they remembered filling. And the night guard swore he heard footsteps-barefoot and light-heading toward the back wing hours after everyone had retired.

Still, no one spoke aloud.

Not in this haveli where words traveled like wildfire and silence was currency.

But one thing was certain: the Thakur's mood was unreadable today.

He didn't shout. Didn't command.

Yet the air around him was charged, electric.

And in Aaradhya's eyes-despite the dull ache in her body-there was a spark of something else now. Something new.

Not trust.

Not hope.

But... a crack in the wall between them.

A beginning.

The dawn arrived, soft and reluctant, slipping through the lattice windows like an apology. It painted pale gold across the stone floors of the haveli, but the cold within the walls remained unmoved.

Inside the old soot-stained room, Aaradhya sat cross-legged on the mat, her back resting against the wall that had watched generations of women in silence.

Her lehenga, an old maroon one with golden embroidery at the border, lay wrinkled over her legs, dulled by the dust of confinement. Her long dupatta was draped across her shoulder and wrapped tightly around her arms-not out of decorum, but for warmth. Her thick braid lay across her chest, the end clutched lightly in her hand.

Her eyes-wide, silent, and dry-were fixed on the floor in front of her.

She had stopped crying.

The cramps had faded by now. But the ache-the one that had nothing to do with her body-remained.

The ache of being locked away.
Of being reduced to a rule.
Of being remembered only by ritual, and forgotten in every other way.

There had been no word from Vijayendra in three days.
Not a note. Not a servant sent on his behalf. Not even footsteps near the door.

She had once told herself she wouldn't expect anything. But the silence... it had hurt worse than anything else.

Until last night.

When she had awoken to find her mat covered with an extra layer of cloth. A pillow beneath her head. And the faint smell of him lingering in the cold air.

He had come.

And now... he returned.

The door creaked open.

She didn't flinch. Didn't rise.

He stepped in quietly, ducking under the low threshold, carrying a brass bowl covered with a white muslin cloth. He was dressed simply-a plain kurta and cotton dhoti, no shawl, no rings, no air of title or power.

His eyes went to her immediately. But she didn't look up.

He bent down, placing the bowl gently beside her.
"Kheer," he said, voice low. "Made in the inner kitchen."

Aaradhya's eyes moved to it briefly. Then back to the wall.

Seconds passed.

And then she spoke.

A calm, cutting whisper.

"Do you think... this will be enough?"

His jaw tightened.

She lifted her head, finally meeting his eyes.

"This?" she nodded toward the bowl. "The cloth, the extra mat, your... footsteps in the middle of the night. Do you think any of it is enough to wash away what you did?"

Vijayendra didn't speak.

Her voice remained quiet, but her words turned sharp like glass under silk.

"You think I'll forget?" Her eyes shimmered-not with tears, but with held-back fury. "That I'll forgive you for humiliating me... for treating me like a duty while you let her live in your shadow?"

His eyes flickered. She had never spoken of Rani since that day. Not directly.

But now, there it was. Laid bare like a wound that hadn't scabbed over.

Aaradhya straightened her back, placing both palms flat on the mat.
"I may not have your power, your name, or your wealth," she said.
"But I have one thing you never valued-my silence. And that silence..." she paused, "has cost me everything."

She stood slowly, adjusting her dupatta, her face pale but proud. Her lehenga swept across the floor with quiet defiance.

She picked up the bowl of kheer and held it out to him-not gently, not with affection. Just enough to say this is not mine to accept.

"Take it back," she said. "Because whatever you're trying to fix with it-it cannot be sweetened."

He stared at the bowl but didn't move.

She added, her voice barely above a breath, "If you ever think of locking me in this room again... then you'd better be ready to watch the haveli burn brick by brick, because I will not return."

Then, without waiting for permission or tradition, Aaradhya stepped past him.

The anklets on her feet didn't chime. They were quiet, like her.

But her presence lingered like incense in an empty temple-sharp, sacred, and unforgettable.

Later That Day...

The isolation room was sealed that evening.

The elder maid was seen closing its creaky doors, whispering to another servant, "It hasn't been shut in decades..."

In the master bedroom, a fresh cotton mattress had been placed on the floor beside the main bed. Simple. Bare. But there.

It was not spoken of. Not declared.

But it was a change.

And in old havelis, change didn't come with thunder.
It came slowly, softly... through a woman's silence.

Through her final no.

Lots of love to you all
Love you all
Itsyourblackrose