(Neha’s POV)
The soft whisper of silk brushing against skin stirred me first.
Not from peace. Never peace.
But from the lingering touch of pain—the kind that stains deeper than bruises. My eyes opened slowly, lashes sticky with dried tears and something heavier. Shame. Despair. Death in slow motion.
I was still in his bed.
The ceiling loomed above, ornate and cold, as unfamiliar as it was suffocating. The linen sheets felt like chains. The fragrance of sandalwood clung to the pillows, but it didn’t mask the underlying stench of cruelty—his cologne, the alcohol, the blood. My blood. Every inch of me throbbed in silent screams. My thighs. My ribs. My neck. My soul.
My limbs were leaden, paralyzed by trauma, yet too aware of every patch of torn skin, every shadow blooming under my skin
