FORCED MARRIAGE WITH BROTHER IN LAW

chapter 59

The kitchen was filled with the sharp scent of spices and the sound of sizzling oil. Y/N stood by the counter, her hands moving mechanically as she helped her bhabi with the preparations. She wasn’t sure why she did it anymore. Was it out of duty? Or because she was expected to? Either way, she did it without question.

Her bhabi, the newly married bride, was cooking with a sense of ease, as though she had been doing it for years, while Y/N's movements were stiff, tired, and slow. There was no joy in it. Just obligation.

As Y/N passed the oil to her bhabi, she couldn’t help but notice the way her bhabi had carelessly added a small amount of water into the hot oil. The sizzle was sharp, the sound crackling in the air like a warning. Before Y/N could even pull her hand back, a small splash of hot oil hit her arm. The pain was immediate—a sharp, searing burn that made her cry out, a tiny, involuntary scream escaping her lips.

She instinctively pulled her arm away from the heat, wincing in pain. But her reaction was met with ridicule.

Her bhabi turned to her, eyes narrowed in disdain. “What’s wrong with you?” she snapped. “You’re acting like you’ve never been burned before. This is nothing new. Get used to it.”

Y/N stood there, frozen for a moment. Her skin throbbed where the oil had splashed, but the sting in her heart was much sharper than the burn on her arm. Her bhabi had seen it. She had noticed the pain, but instead of concern or even empathy, all she had was contempt.

"You act as if you’re some princess," her bhabi continued, rolling her eyes. “Your husband treats you like a servant, doesn’t he? This? This is nothing compared to that. You should be used to it by now. You should know your place.”

Y/N’s heart clenched at the words. The truth was that she did know her place, and it wasn’t to be seen, heard, or treated with kindness. It was to serve—serve everyone, be it her husband, her family, or even strangers. And no amount of oil burns, slaps, or insults could change that.

As her bhabi continued to cook, she didn’t even look at Y/N, continuing to talk as if she were nothing more than an object in the room. “You’re never part of this family now. This is your life. No more complaining. No more crying. This is what you get form this family.”

Y/N clenched her fists at her sides, the pain in her arm dulling, but the ache in her chest growing. She had been trained well—trained to endure, to swallow her emotions, to never show weakness. She had learned that long ago.

But as she stood there, the tears welling in her eyes, she realized something. She was never going to escape it. This was her reality, her prison.

She turned back to the counter, continuing her task, keeping her head down. She wouldn’t show them her pain. Not now. Not ever.

Because that’s what they wanted from her—silence. Obedience. A broken spirit that would never dare to speak out.

And as the hot oil continued to sizzle in the pan, Y/N burned. But it wasn’t just the physical pain. It was the deep, soul-crushing burn of knowing that this was the life she would always have. The life she had been forced into.

The silence in the kitchen was deafening as Y/N continued working, her arm throbbing, her heart breaking, but her spirit never wavering. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.