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"She didn't scream. She didn't beg. But the fire in her eyes? It roared louder than war."
"She wasn't meant to be caged. He made the mistake of thinking she was."
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The first thing Annahita felt was warmth.
But not the kind she knew. Not the gentle warmth of morning sunlight that spilled over the Kutir's courtyard, kissing her skin through mango leaves and dancing dust particles. This was different. Cold, almost clinical—like it came from a thermostat and not the sun. It crawled up her arms slowly, like an unfamiliar presence tracing her skin without permission. Not violent, but invasive. Mechanical. As if someone had tried to mimic comfort and failed.
Her breath caught in her throat, tight and sudden. Her skin prickled. She didn't move. Couldn't. The silence around her wasn't peaceful—it was suffocating.
Then came the scent. Subtle, too subtle. Not sharp like hospitals. It was soft—vanilla, white musk, lavender. Feminine. Familiar in the way luxury stores or magazine pages smelled. Expensive. Intimate. A scent that clung to the air as if it belonged here. Curated. Deliberate.
Her lashes fluttered. Like her body knew she should keep sleeping, but her mind refused to let her. She could feel something was off. That something had changed.
And then she opened her eyes.
It wasn't abrupt. It was slow. Heavy. Like each blink was dragging her further away from the safety of whatever dream she had been clinging to. Reality slipped back in piece by piece.
And she knew instantly—this wasn't home.
This wasn't the Kutir.
The ceiling above her was low, elegantly curved, painted in ivory with cornices that shimmered faintly under warm golden light. A chandelier hung overhead, dripping light like a frozen constellation. It cast shadows on the walls—soft, dancing shadows that didn't belong in a prison.
The bed beneath her was luxurious. Vast. Covered in thick velvet sheets, hand-embroidered with a muted gold thread. The throw blanket at the edge looked like it had never been touched. The pillows were too many, too plump, too arranged.
