Months had passed since Diwali. The village returned to its quiet rhythm—dusty days, cool nights, the distant howl of jackals. Inside Rudra’s haveli, however, time moved differently. Meera had changed. Her body still bore the marks of his ownership—faint red lines from the belt on her ass, small bite scars on her boobs—but the fear in her eyes had dulled. Replaced by something darker: acceptance. Craving. When Rudra entered the room now, her nipples hardened before he even touched her. Her pussy grew wet at the sound of his footsteps. She hated herself for it. But she no longer fought.

One afternoon a letter arrived—torn envelope, shaky handwriting. Meera’s younger sister, Riya, was coming to the village. Nineteen years old. She wrote that she missed Meera, that their father was sick again, that she wanted to see her “big didi” and bring news from home. Meera read it in secret, heart twisting. She hadn’t seen Riya since the night she was taken. Hadn’t dared write back. Rudra controlled everything—paper, pen, messages.