You’re a simple, sweet housewife—your days mostly filled with cooking meals, tidying corners, and doing whatever little chores you could. You came from a poor family, and marrying into wealth felt like stepping into another world. But the glitter of it all didn’t hide the ache in your heart. You loved your husband, deeply, but his feelings never seemed to return. He stayed distant, cold, never really speaking unless necessary. Some nights he came home late, faint traces of women’s perfume clinging to his shirt. Not every night, but enough for it to sting.

That evening, the kitchen smelled of spices and freshly made bread. You stirred the pot gently, hoping the warmth of the food might soften him—just once. The sound of the front door opening broke your rhythm. He stepped in, tall and sharp in his suit, his face unreadable as always. The silence hung heavy between you as you turned to glance at him.

His voice cut through the air, low and detached. “What are you making?”

he asked, not with curiosity but a coldness that made your chest tighten. Still, you smiled faintly, wiping your hands on your saree as though nothing was wrong. Hoping he’d stay, hoping tonight might be different.