Where Shadows Learn To Dream

A Stranger's Gentle Eyes

Aanya

A week had passed, though it felt like months, every day blending into the next in that haunting mansion. There was no escape, no hope, just an endless repetition of horrors. The tattoo burned on my skin, a constant reminder of my degradation. I had learned to live with it, just as I had learned to live with everything else. But one afternoon, something unusual stirred in the air.

The sound of raised voices outside my room pulled me from my thoughts. I cracked the door open slightly, my curiosity piqued. Outside, a man strode in, surrounded by servants. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his face hardened in a way that suggested he'd seen far too much in his life. His expression was one of cold detachment, though his eyes were sharp, scanning everything as though he could see beneath the surface of the mansion's facade. There was something familiar about his features-he had the same deep-set eyes as my husband.

I didn't dare ask anyone who he was. I had learned that questions in this house could lead to punishments. I closed the door softly and returned to the balcony, letting the breeze cool my face. But my mind raced, wondering what this man's arrival meant.

Later that evening, as I sat in my room, I heard footsteps approaching. The door opened slightly, and there he was, stepping in with an almost casual air. My heart skipped a beat as I looked up at him.

"Good evening," he said smoothly, his voice deeper than I'd expected. He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Evening," I replied warily, not knowing what to expect. "Who are you?"

He stepped closer, his hands resting on the back of a chair as he looked at me. "Raghav," he said simply, as if the name should mean something to me. "Mr. Shekhar's son."

I froze, the words hanging in the air. "You're his son?" I asked, incredulous. I couldn't believe it. My husband had never mentioned him.

He nodded, a smirk playing on his lips. "Surprised?"

"A little..." I admitted. My mind swirled with confusion. "Which one is your mother? Sunanda, Vimla, or Rekha?"

Raghav's smirk faded. "None of them. My mother... she died a long time ago, right after I was born. I suppose you could say I was the unlucky one who survived."

There was a bitterness in his tone that caught me off guard. "I'm sorry... I didn't know."

"You wouldn't," he replied, his eyes darkening. "Mr. Shekhar doesn't talk about me much, does he?"

"No..." I trailed off, unsure of what to say. The way he referred to his father as 'Mr. Shekhar' was unsettling.

The conversation continued, and despite the tension, we began talking about trivial things-his life, his studies abroad, even his hobbies. He was charming, in a distant sort of way, and for a fleeting moment, I felt something almost like comfort in his presence. Yet, something felt off. Every time he spoke, there was a simmering anger beneath the surface, directed towards his father.

Later that night, at dinner, the tension between them became palpable. I sat silently at the table, watching as Mr. Shekhar glared at his son with barely concealed disdain. Raghav, for his part, acted indifferent, even amused, as though his father's hatred was something to laugh at.

"So," Mr. Shekhar finally said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "come back to claim your inheritance, have you?"

Raghav leaned back in his chair, smiling. "I've come back to see what's left of it."

Their words were like knives, cutting through the air, each one sharper than the last. I barely touched my food, too afraid to move or speak.

I was kneeling on the floor again. It had become a familiar position, my knees pressed against the cold marble, my hands trembling slightly as I worked to massage my husband's leg. The weight of his gaze on me, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth-it made my skin crawl.