Chapter 5: The Storm Breaks

The evening breeze brushed through Indiranagar, rustling the curtains of Poornima’s small apartment. She had just changed into a simple cotton kurti and was sipping tea quietly, trying to ignore the ache in her chest that never truly left.

That’s when the bell rang. Once. Then again — louder.

She opened the door.

Veeresh stood there.

Eyes blazing. Breathing heavy. His suit crumpled like he’d driven too fast. He didn’t wait for an invitation.

He walked in.

Poornima stared, frozen.

> “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, in one sudden move, he grabbed her wrist and pushed her gently, but firmly, against the wall. Her back hit the cold plaster. Her breath caught.

His eyes were wild with a storm.

> “Where is it?”

> “W-What?” she whispered, heart racing.

> “The mangalsutra I tied around your neck. Where is it, Poornima? Or are you still mourning your ex-husband?”

Her eyes widened. The insult stung like acid.

Her hand rose on impulse, ready to slap him. But he caught her mid-air, holding her wrist tightly.

Silence crackled between them.

> “Enough,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. “You’re my wife. Come home.”

> “Leave,” she hissed, voice trembling with fury. “You lost the right to call me that the night you left me!”

But Veeresh wasn’t listening.

Driven by something deeper — guilt, anger, regret, or maybe a desperate need to feel in control again, he pulled her toward the door.

> “Veeresh, let me go—”

> “No.”

Before she could react, he had taken her keys, shut her apartment, and ushered her down the stairs. In silence. His grip firm but not cruel.

She struggled, but her heart was too shaken to speak.

---

In the Penthouse

The elevator dinged softly. She stepped inside, arms crossed, glaring at him.

He opened the door. The penthouse was sleek, dimly lit, cold — just like him.

> “Prepare dinner,” he said flatly, walking toward the living room.

She blinked. “I am not your maid.”

> “Prepare, Poornima,” he snapped, eyes dark. “Don’t argue.”

Something about his voice — or maybe the years of emotional exhaustion — made her quietly walk to the kitchen.

Her hands shook slightly as she chopped vegetables, but she finished. Silent. Wounded. Defeated.

They ate in silence. She didn’t touch much.

Afterward, she quietly made her way toward the guest room, ready to shut the door.

But he stood there, leaning against the doorframe.

> “That’s not your room.”

She froze.

> “Your room is here,” he added, stepping closer. “With me.”

> “I don’t want to be in the same room as you.”

> “And I didn’t want to lose two years of marriage in silence,” he snapped. “But we both made choices. Now come.”

Before she could protest, he pulled her gently but firmly toward his bedroom.

She resisted, but his grip remained firm. Not forceful — just resolute.

He laid down and then looked at her. She stood frozen, heart pounding.

> “Lay down, Poornima. I won’t touch you. But you’re my wife. At least try to remember that.”

Reluctantly, she lay beside him, eyes facing the opposite side. Her hands were clenched. Her breath shallow.

He lay beside her, unmoving.

Neither spoke.

But in that stillness — a thousand wounds screamed between them.

---

End of Chapter 5