Dassani Brides

Chapter 2

The darkness in the bedroom was not a comfort; it was a weight that pressed down on the back of Geetanjali’s neck as she folded the heavy linen sheets. The initial month of her marriage had not been a transition into a new life—it had been an initiation into an unspoken, highly regimented warfare. Every hallway of the Dassani estate carried an echo of surveillance, and every door frame felt like the threshold of a courtroom where she was permanently on trial.

Flashback

Three years earlier

The winter of that first month had settled deep into the depths of her soul. Outside, the fog rolled off the lawns in thick, choking billows, turning the morning light into a dirty grey glaze against the tall bay windows.

Geetanjali stood in the secondary kitchen, her hands stiffened by the biting cold as she balanced a heavy brass tray. On it rested the silver tea service, polished to a mirror shine, along with a pot of cardamom tea meant for Madhu Dassani’s morning court in the sunroom.

"Hurry up, girl," a sharp voice barked from the doorway.

Geetanjali turned quickly, adjusting her grip on the heavy handles. Just as she stepped out into the tiled corridor, a young kitchen scullion, rushing past with a basket of firewood, lost his footing on the slick stone floor. He crashed heavily against her side. The tray jolted violently; hot tea sloshed over the rim, stinging the back of Geetanjali's hands, and a porcelain cup rattled against the brass edge.

"Forgive me, bhabhi-ji! Forgive me!" the boy scrambled to his knees, his face white with terror.

"It's alright, go... quickly, before anyone sees," Geetanjali whispered hurriedly, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She spent three crucial minutes wiping the spilled tea and setting the set right, but the delay was fatal. By the time she reached the sunroom, the bitter Delhi cold had already seeped through the thin silver walls of the teapot.

Madhu Dassani sat in a high-backed velvet armchair, draped in an immaculate pashmina shawl. She did not look up when Geetanjali entered.

"You are nine minutes late," Madhu said, her voice dropping into the quiet, lethal register that governed the household.

"I am sorry, Ma," Geetanjali murmured, placing the tray gently on the low marble table and pouring a cup. "There was an accident in the hallway—"

"I do not care for your excuses, refugee," Madhu cut in coldly. She lifted the cup to her lips, took a single, tiny sip, and her face contorted in immediate disgust.

Without a second of hesitation, Madhu set the cup down with a sharp clatter and stood up. The move was so fast that Geetanjali had no time to step back.

Crack.

The blow landed full across Geetanjali’s left cheek with a sickening, wet force. Her head snapped to the side, her balance faltering as the skin flared into a blinding, searing pain.

"Cold," Madhu hissed, stepping close enough that Geetanjali could smell the sharp, metallic tang of her perfume. "You bring me cold tea in my own house? Do you think because my father-in-law picked you up out of the dirt on a train platform that you are a mistress here? You are a servant who sleeps in my son's bed. Learn your place, or I will throw you back into the streets myself."

Geetanjali stood frozen, her left hand coming up slowly to cup her burning cheek. Her vision swam with unshed tears, but she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to let them fall in front of the older woman.

"Take this slop away and brew it again," Madhu commanded, turning her back completely. "And wash your face. You look pathetic."

That evening, the heavy oak door of the master bedroom opened, and Shiv walked in. He removed his heavy tailored coat, unbuttoning his waistcoat with the methodical, unhurried precision that marked everything he did.

Geetanjali sat at the edge of the dressing table, the red outline of five fingers still clearly visible against her pale skin. The humiliation of the morning had fermented into a sudden, desperate fragment of courage. She stood up, her hands trembling as she approached him.

"Shiv," she began, her voice tight and trembling.

He didn't turn around.

"Your mother..." She swallowed, forcing the words through a throat constricted by shame. "She... she struck me today."

Shiv’s fingers paused on his tie knot for a fraction of a second. He pulled the silk strip free and tossed it onto the armchair, his expression entirely unreadable in the dim lamplight. He turned slowly to look at her, his dark eyes scanning her face with a cool, clinical detachment. He saw the red, swollen welt on her cheek, but not a single muscle in his jaw softened.

"Why?" he asked, his voice flat.

"The tea... it was cold," she gasped, the sheer absurdity of it choking her. "It was an accident! A servant fell, and the winter draught—"

"Then do not serve her cold tea," Shiv interrupted, his tone laced with a heartless, breezy nonchalance that cut deeper than the slap itself.

Geetanjali stared at him, her breath hitching. "Shiv, she hit me! She called me a refugee... she said—"

"You," Shiv took a step forward, his shadow engulfing her completely. He did not raise his voice; he lowered it into that low, absolute tone that made the air in the room freeze. "are careless of your duties. I do not have time to mediate domestic squabbles over tea cups."

"A squabble?" she whispered, horrified.

"If Ma is displeased with you, it means you are failing in your duties. You want her to treat you with respect? Then transform yourself into an acceptable daughter-in-law. Adjust to her. Anticipate her demands. Do not disturb my peace with your tears, and do not bring these childish complaints to me again. Is that clear?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. Geetanjali looked into her husband's dark, unfeeling eyes and saw no sanctuary, no protection, and no warmth. He didn't care about the cruelty; he cared only about the order of his house and the preservation of his own comfort.

"It is clear," she said, her voice dropping into a hollow, empty quiet.

Two days later, in the small, secluded guest quarters where her younger sisters were housed, the fragile dam broke.

Fifteen-year-old Sudha had been sitting on the bed, brushing her hair, when Geetanjali walked in to check on them. The morning light caught the dark, ugly bruising that had settled into Geetanjali’s cheekbone.

Sudha dropped the brush, her eyes widening in horror. "Didi... what is that on your face?"

Komal, seventeen and far more observant, rushed over from the window. She caught Geetanjali’s chin in her small hand, tilting her face toward the light. "Who did this to you? Was it... was it the old woman?"

Geetanjali tried to pull away, forcing a tight, miserable smile. "It’s nothing, Komal. I... I bumped into the cabinet in the dark—"

"Don't lie to us!" Komal cried out, tears instantly welling in her eyes. "We hear how she speaks to you! We see how the servants look at you! Didi, you saved that old man's life! They promised us a home, but they treat us like servants!"

Looking at the terrified, tear-streaked faces of her little sisters, the weight became too much to bear. Geetanjali crumpled onto the edge of the mattress, burying her face in her hands, and sobbed. She laid bare the horrific reality of her marriage—the slaps, the constant verbal degradation from Madhu, and the terrifying, icy indifference of Shiv.

"We have to leave," Sudha whimpered, clutching Geetanjali’s sari. "Didi, please. We survived the riots. We can survive out there. We don't need their money."

A naive, frantic glimmer of hope ignited between the three desperate girls. Over the course of the next four days, behind locked doors, they wove a secret plan of escape. They would ask to visit the central Lakshmi temple under the pretext of holding a prayer ceremony for their deceased parents’ souls. The temple was vast, crowded, and had multiple rear exits leading into the labyrinthine alleys of Old Delhi.

A week later, the plan was put into motion.

The heavy black Dassani four wheeler dropped the three girls at the foot of the temple steps. The family driver, an elderly man named Ramu along with one bodyguard, parked nearby, waiting patiently. Inside the chaotic, crowded courtyard filled with incense smoke and ringing brass bells, Geetanjali grabbed her sisters' hands.

"Now," she whispered, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird.

They slipped past a group of chanting pilgrims, ducking through a narrow side door that led to the rear courtyard, and sprinted down the stone steps into the alleyway where a public bus was idling.

For 2 hours, Ramu and the bodyguard waited outside the main gates. When the crowds began to thin and the girls did not return, panic set in. They searched the sanctum, called their names, and finally, pale and sweating with terror, phoned the main estate.

Shiv was sitting in his study when the call came through. He listened to Ramu’s frantic stuttering without uttering a word. When he hung up the receiver, he didn't call the police. He stood up, walked directly to Geetanjali’s dressing room, opened her wardrobe, and her mother’s silver bangles were gone from the velvet drawer.

Shiv’s eyes darkened into a terrifying, murderous pitch. He chose to withhold the news from his grandfather and mother. Instead, with a few quiet, lethal phone calls, he deployed his personal security detail, tracking the routes to the railway stations and bus terminals.

Three hours later, the escape was over.

The black car tires screeched against the gravel driveway of the Dassani estate. The rear door was yanked open, and the three girls were shoved violently into the dimly lit, cavernous private office in the east wing.

Shiv was sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, the room plunged into deep shadow, save for a single desk lamp that cast stark, harsh light across his sharp jaw.

Sudha was weeping hysterically, while Komal tried to shield her with her body. Geetanjali stood in front of the desk, her clothes disheveled, her face drained of all color.

"Where were you going?" Shiv’s voice broke the silence. It wasn't loud. It was soft, cold, and heavy, like iron dragged over stone.

"We... we lost our way in the temple crowd, Shiv," Geetanjali stammered, her voice shaking violently. "The driver... he must have missed us at the front—"

Shiv rose from his chair with a terrifying, fluid slowness. He rounded the desk in two long strides, his hand shooting out like a striking viper. His fingers clamped around Geetanjali’s jaw in a vice-like grip, forcing her head up, his thumb pressing so hard into her cheek that she gasped in pain.

"You dare lie to me!" he spat, his eyes blazing with a dark, unbridled fury. He tightened his grip, completely silencing her attempts to speak.

He turned his terrifying, piercing gaze onto fifteen-year-old Sudha, who was trembling violently.

"You," Shiv addressed the child, his voice dropping into a chillingly calm cadence. "Tell me the truth right now, or I will have my men take your sister Komal and drop her off at the forest. You will never see her face again."

"No! Please!" Sudha shrieked, collapsing to her knees on the marble floor. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you! We were taking the bus to Jaipur! We were running away because your mother hit her! Please don't take Komal! Please!"

"Sudha, no!" Geetanjali cried out through her clamped jaw.

Shiv released Geetanjali’s face with a harsh shove that sent her stumbling backward. He snapped his fingers, and two broad-shouldered guards stepped out from the shadows near the door.

"Take the two younger girls outside," Shiv ordered coldly.

"Shiv! Please! They are just children!" Geetanjali threw herself forward, her hands clawing frantically at his sleeve, her tears staining the dark fabric of his suit. "Punish me! Do whatever you want to me, but let them go! Please!"

Shiv didn't even flinch. With a casual, brutal flick of his arm, he backhanded her across the face.

Crack.

The force of the strike echoed sharply through the large room. Geetanjali recoiled, crashing into the corner of the wall and sliding onto the cold stone floor, blood welling at the corner of her lip.

Shiv loomed over her, his tall frame blocking out the light, his shadow swallowing her whole.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Geetanjali pulled her knees to her chest, trembling violently, looking up at him through a veil of wet hair and tears.

"You think you are clever, Geetanjali?" Shiv whispered, leaning down, his face inches from hers. "You think because my grandfather brought you here, you have freedom? You and your sisters exist in this house entirely at our mercy."

He reached out, his heavy hand closing around her shoulder, shaking her slightly to force her attention. "Listen to me very carefully. If you ever attempt a stunt like this again—if you so much as take a step outside these gates without my permission—I will not hurt you. I will simply ensure that one of your precious sisters disappears. Do you know where young, unprotected girls end up in this city? The red-light districts. They vanish, Geetanjali. And no one ever finds them."

The sheer, sickening horror of his words struck Geetanjali like a physical blow. Her eyes went wide, the blood draining completely from her face.

"You... you are a monster!" she gasped, the words tearing from her throat in a ragged, desperate sob. "A cold, heartless monster!"

Crack.

Another stinging slap cut her off mid-sentence, snapping her head back against the wall.

"Yet you think you can disrespect me," Shiv said, his voice terrifyingly steady, stripped of all emotion. "Challenge my authority again, and you will learn what true cruelty looks like."

That night, Geetanjali lay shattered on the massive king-sized bed, her body aching, tears etching a map of silent despair across her swollen face.

The next morning, when Shiv escorted her downstairs, the house was eerily silent. Komal and Sudha were gone. In a swift, calculated move designed to sever her only lifeline and eliminate any future thoughts of rebellion, Shiv had enrolled both girls in strict, distant boarding school hostels in the hills, effectively cutting off her daily contact with them.

She was left completely, utterly alone in the gilded cage, wrapped in chains of perpetual dread.