Falling Destiny

Episode 45 : "Slave of The Silence"

(Neha’s POV)

Mary’s hands were gentle—so gentle it broke me. She tore the bread into small pieces, feeding me like I was a child, her voice a soft murmur in a world that had long since turned cruel. My lips were cracked, trembling, but I took each piece from her fingers like it was a gift from the heavens.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday, child,” she said, her wrinkled brow furrowed with concern. “You’ll fall sick like this.”

The warmth of her care contrasted sharply against the ice in my chest. I nodded slowly, tears welling up again. My throat ached with unspoken grief. Then her whisper faltered. Veer's words echoed in both our minds—“Send her to my room.”

She looked at me, sorrow heavy in her eyes. “I can’t help you, my child… I can’t disobey them.”

I didn’t ask her to. I couldn’t. I just leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her waist, pressing my face against her apron like a lost child seeking refuge. She didn’t speak. She simply ran her hand through my tangled hair, humming a tune so faint, it felt like a lullaby for the broken.

Minutes passed in silence, until I finished the last bite. Then Mary’s voice returned, barely a whisper. “Go, Neha. Don’t make him angry. You know what happens when the monster inside him wakes.”

My legs felt like they were filled with wet sand as I stood up. Every step toward his room felt like walking deeper into a trap. I stopped in front of the door, heart pounding so loud I thought he might hear it from inside. My trembling fingers turned the knob.

The room was empty at first.

But then… he came out.

Steam followed him from the bathroom like an aura. His body glistened, water sliding down his sculpted chest. A white towel was wrapped low around his waist, the only fabric between him and my nightmare. I took a step back instinctively, but his voice sliced through the air like a blade.

“Stop.”

My legs froze.

He walked toward me, water still dripping from his hair, and handed me another towel—dry, crisp, folded. “Wipe me,” he said, his voice unreadable.

My breath hitched. I looked at the towel. Then at him. Then down again.

My hands—cold and trembling—moved toward him, and I began to pat his shoulders. His skin was warm, but I felt nothing. No heat, no life. Just dread. I wiped his chest without looking up, my fingers brushing against his ribs. He didn’t speak, but I felt his gaze on me—watching, analyzing, owning.

“You are my personal slave now,” he said finally. “And I am your master. Understand that.”

I swallowed hard, nodding silently.

“Dress me.”

I went to his wardrobe and chose a white shirt with the same careful precision as someone handling glass. When I turned back, he had dropped the towel. I didn’t react. I couldn’t. I handed him the boxers and trousers without looking and helped him into the shirt. My fingers fumbled over the buttons, the silence between us louder than any scream.

“Sit. On the floor.”

I obeyed, folding myself at his feet.

“Massage my legs.”

I did. My palms pressed against his calves, my fingers shaking as I tried not to think. Tried not to feel. His silence stretched like wire, and I was the one strung tight across it.

Then, suddenly, he said, “I’m hungry. Make me something.”

I stood up, bowed my head, and rushed out of the room. The hallway spun. My eyes were blurry, my stomach heavy with the small amount of bread I’d managed to eat. I reached the kitchen.

The other maids sneered. They had seen me now as what I had become—a fallen woman, a kept slave.

Only Mary came forward. “He likes paneer and roti,” she whispered. “The rest you’ll figure out.”

I cooked, the heat from the stove nothing compared to the fire of shame inside me. My fingers burned as I flipped the roti, but I didn’t care. I plated the meal and walked it to him on a tray.

He looked at the plate once. Then, without a word, he threw it against the wall.

“Make something else.”

I blinked, stunned. But I nodded.

The next was dal. Then a curry. Then soup. Then rice. Dish after dish after dish. Every single one rejected. Thrown. Shattered. Spilled. My hands became blistered from the constant cleaning. My feet throbbed. My stomach growled. But I kept going.

Until…

As I cleaned the shards of the last shattered bowl, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my head. My fingers fumbled. My vision swam.

And everything went black.

The last thing I remembered was the cold marble floor meeting my cheek, and the sound of Mary screaming my name from far away.

(Veer’s POV)

The moment I stepped out of my office and entered the mansion, I didn't head for my room like usual. I walked straight to the kitchen.

Not because I was hungry.

But because I knew she'd be there.

All day, even while attending back-to-back meetings, signing deals, crushing competitors with my signature icy calm—I had her live feed open on a small screen on my desk. My men had set up surveillance across the mansion, and she had become my most watched subject. Not for protection. For control.

For punishment.

She had been running around all day like a ragged shadow. Cleaning floors on her knees, picking up every little thing I deliberately threw across the rooms, cooking dish after dish—only to have each one shattered against the walls by my hand. I saw her arms tremble with exhaustion, her legs buckling slightly every time she bent. But still, she didn't stop.

And yet... something in me twisted when I saw her wipe her sweat-stained forehead with the same handkerchief I’d given her to clean the entire mansion.

Like an obedient puppet.

But when the last bowl shattered and she sank to the floor, something changed.

Her hands reached for her head. Her movements slowed.

And then—

She collapsed.

I didn’t think. I stormed out of my room and crossed the hallway, footsteps hard and loud.

“Mary!” I barked the moment I reached the kitchen.

She was already there, kneeling beside Neha’s unconscious form. She splashed water on her face with trembling hands. “Neha? Neha, beta, open your eyes!”

Nothing.

Her body was too still. Her skin had lost its color.

A jolt of unfamiliar panic surged in my chest as I pushed Mary aside, kneeling down, lifting Neha in my arms. Her head lolled against my shoulder like a doll’s, and I hated how light she felt. I carried her to the nearest sofa, laying her down gently.

Her lips were dry. Her breath faint.

This wasn’t what I wanted.

I pulled out my phone immediately and called the private doctor. “Come now. Ten minutes. Bring whatever is needed. Emergency.”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I didn’t care.

I paced the floor until the doctor arrived.

He came exactly ten minutes later, as instructed, with his kit and his assistant. They moved quickly. Checked her vitals. Injected something into her arm. Took a blood sample.

“She fainted due to extreme exhaustion, sir,” he said, his voice tight. “Her body is malnourished. Dehydrated. She hasn’t eaten enough. She needs rest, warmth, food—immediately. If she doesn't receive proper care, she could—”

“She won’t die,” I snapped. “Fix her.”

The doctor stiffened and nodded. “She’ll wake up soon. Keep her warm. And don’t let her skip meals again.”

I nodded curtly.

When they left, I turned to Mary, who stood watching with teary eyes.

“When she regains consciousness,” I ordered coldly, “take her to the guest room. Feed her. Let her rest. But not for long.”

Mary hesitated.

“She needs to live, Mary,” I added, my voice like frost. “I don’t want her dead. I want her to suffer. She doesn’t get to escape.”

Mary nodded slowly, clutching her hands together, lips quivering.

“She’s just a girl, sir,” she whispered. “She’s been through so much.”

I stepped toward her, voice a low growl. “So have I.”

I looked back at Neha’s unconscious body.

Yes, she would live.

But her freedom was already dead.