The rain began falling before dawn, steady and relentless, as if the sky itself was weeping for her. Chan Juan sat by the window, her frail frame outlined against the pale light of the approaching morning. The world outside was a blur of gray, streaked with rivulets of water, but her thoughts were sharper than they had been in weeks. Sharp enough to cut.
Her left leg ached where it ended abruptly below the knee, the phantom pain gnawing at her like a ghost from her past. She absently ran her hand over the stump, the smooth fabric of her worn dress bunching under her fingers. The pain was always worse when it rained, but it wasn't the ache in her body that consumed her now. It was the weight of her guilt, an invisible burden she had carried for so long it had fused with her very bones.
It was my fault.
The thought crept in, unbidden but relentless, like the rain that tapped against the windowpane. She deserved this life — the pain, the isolation, and the man who lay asleep in the bed behind her.
Mo Fang stirred, his heavy body shifting beneath the thin covers. She could hear the familiar groan of the old bedframe, and moments later, his heavy footsteps thudded against the wooden floor. Each step was deliberate, slow, echoing with the authority of a man who had never questioned his own power. He had always been like that — stern, demanding. He was used to control, and now, he controlled her.
"Get up." His voice was low, rough like the grit of stone underfoot, and without turning around, she felt the familiar tightening in her chest. She could feel his gaze on her back, sharp and expectant.
She hesitated for a moment, fingers curling against the windowsill, before slowly rising from her seat. Her body ached, more from the weariness of life than from the actual physical pain, but she pushed through it like she always did. She moved as quickly as she could with the aid of her cane, hating the limp that had become a permanent part of her walk.
He didn't look at her, not really. His eyes flicked over her form with the same indifferent glance he reserved for anything that no longer intrigued him. She was just part of the furniture now — another object in his life that served its purpose and nothing more.
"Breakfast," he grunted.
"Yes," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the rain outside.
He didn't need to say more.
As She moved toward the kitchen, her limp more pronounced in the damp morning air, she felt his eyes linger on her. It wasn't affection, nor was it desire in the way one might long for another person. It was possession. His gaze was a constant reminder of what she had become to him — something to use, something he owned. The wordless command in his look was clear.
Later, he would expect more than breakfast. He always did.
Her cane tapped lightly against the floor as she limped toward the kitchen. Their small house was barely more than four walls, with a leaking roof and creaking floorboards. There was no electricity; they relied on a kerosene lamp that flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the room. The dampness in the air made the flame struggle, and Chan Juan could feel the humidity clinging to her skin like a second layer.
She prepared the food in silence, her movements mechanical, her mind retreating into a familiar numbness. The ritual was always the same: she would serve him, and afterward, when the weight of the day pressed down harder, He would come to her. It didn't matter if she was ready or not. It didn't matter if she was in pain. Her body was his to do with as he pleased.
The first time it happened, she had cried, the quiet sobs muffled against the mattress while he grunted and pushed, oblivious to her suffering. Afterward, she had tried to explain — to tell him that she couldn't bear it, that it hurt, that she wasn't ready — but he had laughed. A low, humorless sound.
"You're my wife," he had said, as though that simple declaration justified everything.
And now, she didn't resist anymore. She had learned to dissociate, to let her mind drift somewhere far away whenever he took her, leaving only her body behind. It was easier that way, easier to believe that this was her penance.
Because she deserved it. All of it.
She had accepted the blame, after all. It was easier than fighting. Easier than remembering. Easier than reliving that day when everything had shattered, when she had lost him — the only person who had ever made her feel whole.
She had done many things, and made countless mistakes, all because of him. The man she had loved. The man who had never been hers.
Xiao Dan.
His name felt like a forbidden word in her thoughts, one she barely allowed herself to linger on. Loving him had been her first sin. Everything else that followed — the lies, the reckless choices, the betrayals — had been because of that love. And she had paid for it. Paid for it with her leg, with her life as it was now, with her best friend.
She blinked back the rising tide of memories. It wasn't the time to think of him, of what she had lost, of what she had destroyed in her blind devotion to him. Anshul was gone now because of her. Gone from her life, and yet the mark he had left on her was as permanent as the scar that ran up her thigh.
Tears stung her eyes as she prepared steamed buns on the stove, the dough trembling in her hands. She thought of him often, more than she should. The boy who had been her everything. The boy she had cherished more than life itself. She could still hear his voice sometimes, soft and kind, promising her a future that no longer existed. A future that had been ripped away in an instant, like a cruel joke.
As she moved around the kitchen, preparing Mo Fang's breakfast, she tried to focus on the mundane tasks. Cooking, and cleaning — were small comforts in a life that felt increasingly hollow. Her hands moved automatically, chopping vegetables and stirring the rice, but her mind wandered back to the past, as it often did when the silence became too heavy.
She had thought love would save her once. That her feelings for Xiao Dan were enough to justify everything she had done. But in the end, love had ruined her. He had never asked for the sacrifices she made, the lies she told, the people she had hurt along the way. And yet, she had done it all for him.
A sudden noise from behind made her flinch, and she turned to see Mo Fang standing in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed in irritation. He was shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling heavily as he stared at her. She recognized that look immediately — the simmering anger beneath his gaze.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice thick with sleep and annoyance. "Making a racket so early in the morning?"
"I'm just making breakfast," Chan Juan replied quietly, her voice steady, though her heart raced in her chest. She lowered her eyes, focusing on the task at hand.
He approached her, his bare feet heavy against the wooden floor. He stood behind her now, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. His fingers grazed her braid, roughly tugging at the loose plait. Misha's breath caught in her throat, but she didn't move. She had learned long ago not to resist when his moods turned dark.
"You think you're better than me?" Raghav muttered, his grip tightening on her hair. "With your crippled leg and your high-born airs?"
"No," she whispered. "I don't."
He released her suddenly, his hand dropping to his side said lustily. "Good. Don't forget your place. Do it fast."
She nodded, though she said nothing more. She never fought back, never argued. It wasn't worth the bruises.
He stalked back to the bed, muttering under his breath, leaving Misha standing alone in the kitchen, her heart still pounding. The rain outside had softened to a light drizzle, but the storm within her raged on.
She continued to work in silence, her thoughts drifting once again. I deserve this, she told herself, as she had so many times before. This was her punishment, not just for what had happened to her body, but for everything she had done — everything she had ruined in her desperate, foolish love for Xiao Dan.
It had been her fault. Or at least, that's what everyone believed.
Even now, she couldn't shake the memory — the moment the world came crashing down around her, the accusations thrown like stones. They had pointed fingers at her, screamed her name, called her a murderer, and she hadn't fought back. She had let them believe it.
Because she had loved him. She had loved him too much to ruin his life, so she had ruined her own instead.
Her father had been the one to arrange her marriage to Mo Fang, hastily tying her to the older man as though she were a loose end that needed to be removed from the house and family. He had thought it was for the best — that a crippled girl with a ruined reputation would be safer with a husband. A husband like Mo Fang, who saw her as less than human.
She served the breakfast without a word, placing the plate in front of him as he sat at the table, his bulk filling the small kitchen. He ate without acknowledging her presence, not even a glance in her direction. That was better, though. Silence was always better.
But as the hours slipped, as the rain outside turned into a downpour, she felt it. The shift. The moment when his mood darkened, when the tension in the house thickened like the gathering storm. She had learned to recognize it long ago — the way his body moved more deliberately, the way his hands flexed as though eager to take control of something. Or someone.
When he stood and moved toward her, Her heart began to race, though outwardly she remained still. She had to. If she fought, it would only be worse. She knew that by now.
His fingers gripped her arm roughly, pulling her closer through her braid giving pain to her scalp, as his hot breath fanned her neck. He didn't bother with words anymore. He never did. His actions spoke loudly enough. His hand moved down her back, the touch devoid of tenderness, his fingers digging into her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.
Chan Juan's mind went blank. She had trained herself to stop thinking when he touched her this way, to disappear somewhere far away inside herself, where the pain couldn't reach her. She thought of the rain, the steady rhythm of it against the roof. She focused on that, on the cold, distant world outside.
But it wasn't enough.
The moment his hand slid between her thighs, she flinched. It was a small reaction, barely noticeable, but he felt it. He always did. His grip tightened painfully.
"Don't pretend you don't want this," Fang growled into her ear, his voice low and menacing. "You're my wife. You belong to me."
She wanted to scream, but her throat felt tight, her breath shallow. Instead, she nodded silently, her eyes fixed on the floor. It would be over soon. It always was. If she just endured it, if she didn't resist, he would finish and leave her alone. But like always he never did.
The sound of fabric tearing filled the small room, and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. He pushed her roughly against the kitchen counter, her body folding awkwardly as he bent her over. Her leg, the one that remained, protested the position, but she didn't move. Couldn't move.
He forced himself inside her without care, and Chan Juan closed her eyes, willing herself to disappear. To become nothing. The pain was sharp, but she swallowed it, buried it deep where it couldn't escape. She deserved this, she reminded herself. She had always deserved it.
Because she had failed him.
Failed the boy she had cherished. The boy who had died because of her.
The boy whose death she would never stop punishing herself for.
Tears spilled silently down her cheeks, mixing with the rain that still pounded against the window. She wasn't sure if the tears were for her or for him anymore. Maybe both.
He finished quickly, as he always did, pulling away from her without a word. He adjusted his clothes, his face impassive, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. To him, it hadn't.
He left the kitchen without a glance back at her, leaving her slumped against the counter, her body shaking, her breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.
The rain continued to fall, endless and cold, as she stood there, feeling the pieces of herself scatter and break once more.
But day just didn't ended there.
The night settled heavily over the small house, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost oppressive. Inside, the only sounds were the faint creaks of the old wooden floor and the occasional patter of raindrops on the roof.
Chan Juan lay in bed, curled beneath a thin, threadbare sheet. The bed was too small for comfort, and the space between her and Fang felt suffocating. The night had been fraught with tension and violence. Fang's anger had not subsided with the setting sun; if anything, it had intensified after he discovered she had left the house earlier that day. His reaction had been fierce and relentless.
He had approached her with a brutal intensity, his hands rough as he pulled her closer, the weight of his body pressing down on hers. The sheet that covered them was tangled and damp with sweat, a stark contrast to the cold, distant silence that usually filled their nights. His frustration had erupted in a storm of shoving and harsh words, his anger a raw, palpable force.
Chan Juan's braid, which she had meticulously plaited earlier in the day, had become a cruel instrument of control. He liked it that way, using the braid as a means to hold and manage her roughly. Each yank on the braid felt like a physical manifestation of his power over her, a constant reminder of her position in his world.
Her leg ached from the day's exertions and the rough handling. Every slight movement sent a jolt of discomfort through her, a reminder of the punishment she had endured. His's anger wasn't just about her disobedience; it was a reflection of his desire to control every aspect of her life, including keeping her hidden away. He didn't want anyone to see his crippled wife, the woman who, in his eyes, was a burden and a mark of failure.
She had learned not to question or resist. Fang's need to isolate her was as much about maintaining his pride as it was about asserting his control. The secrecy and isolation had become a twisted part of their daily routine, a way for Raghav to avoid facing the judgments or pity of others.
In the stillness of the night, the house seemed too quiet, almost too large for her alone. The silence between them was a heavy presence, punctuated only by Fang's occasional restless movements. She could feel the heat of his anger even now, the aftermath of the violence hanging in the air like a dark cloud.
As She lay there, trying to ignore the pain and the bitterness, sleep was elusive. Her mind replayed the day's events, the confrontation with Raghav, and the crushing weight of her own decisions. Each passing moment felt like a stretch of endless darkness, filled with regret and sorrow.
When morning light finally broke through the window, it found her still tangled in the aftermath of the night, her body and soul bruised by the relentless cycle of her life.
The sun rose over the Daxing District, casting a harsh light through the small, grimy window of the cottage. The rain from the previous night had left everything slick and muddy, a reflection of the turmoil inside Chan Juan's heart. The soft light made the shadows in the room even more pronounced, highlighting the stark reality of her existence.
She awoke with a start, her body still aching from the previous night's violence. The bed was damp from sweat, the fabric of her saree clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She forced herself to move, her prosthetic leg feeling heavier than usual as she shuffled toward the small, dilapidated mirror in the corner.
Her reflection was a painful reminder of the life she led. The dark bruises on her skin were a mosaic of Fang's brutality, each mark a testament to the violence she had endured. Her eyes, swollen and red, revealed a deep weariness that had settled into her bones. She quickly turned away, unable to bear the sight of her own suffering.
The morning light filtered through the cracks in the walls, casting a dim glow over the small kitchen area. The air was thick with the smell of dampness and old, stale bread. She set about preparing breakfast, her movements slow and deliberate. The simple task of making tea and rotis was a routine that gave her a small semblance of control over her life, even if it was fleeting.
Fang, still asleep in their shared bed, was an imposing presence even in his slumber. His snores were a constant reminder of the cruelty he inflicted upon her. As she worked, she could hear his heavy breathing, each sound a reminder of the violence that awaited her when he awoke.
The clatter of dishes was the only sound that filled the kitchen until he stirred. He shuffled into the room, his bulk filling the doorway. His eyes, still clouded with sleep and irritation, found Misha with a disapproving glare. He was in a foul mood, and his displeasure was evident in the way he moved, each step a sign of his frustration.
"Why is breakfast not ready yet?" he grumbled, his voice a harsh bark. The tone of his words was a clear indication that he was looking for any excuse to vent his anger. His eyes swept over the meager spread of food, his expression one of disdain.
Her's heart sank at the sight of him. His presence was a constant reminder of her subjugation, and his demands seemed to grow more unreasonable with each passing day. She quickly served the food, her hands trembling as she placed the plates before him.
Fang's impatience was palpable as he ate, his movements rough and unrefined. His dissatisfaction was evident in the way he criticized the food, his words sharp and cutting. She accepted the abuse in silence, her face a mask of resignation. The brief moments of their interactions were filled with an unspoken understanding of the power dynamics at play. She was to be silent, submissive, and compliant, no matter the cost.
As He finished his meal, he pushed his plate away with a grunt, his gaze lingering on her with a mixture of disdain and expectation. "Get yourself ready," he ordered. "We need to talk about what you're going to do for me today."
She nodded, her heart sinking. She had learned not to question him, not to push back. The consequences of defiance were too severe, and she had no desire to provoke his anger further. She moved slowly to her small, cluttered bedroom, her mind racing with anxiety about the day ahead.
The sun was already high in the sky by the time her emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a fresh dress. Her movements were careful and deliberate, each step a reminder of the discomfort and pain she felt. Fang was waiting for her outside, his expression stern and impatient.
"You're coming with me," he said gruffly, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her toward the field where he works as a carpenter. The district was already bustling with activity, the sight of people working in the fields a stark contrast to the turmoil that raged inside her. The fields were where Raghav had spent most of his days, toiling away in the relentless sun, his anger a constant companion.
As they walked, Chan Juan's mind was filled with a swirling mix of dread and sorrow. The prospect of going to the city was overwhelming. The city was not just a place of opportunity; it was a monument to her past, filled with memories that she could never escape.
The city was where her dreams had once lived, where the love she had held so dearly was intertwined with every street and every corner. It was where her mistakes had been born, mistakes that had led to her friend's untimely death and to the crushing weight of her guilt. The city was a reflection of everything she had lost, a reminder of the man she loved but could never be with, and the life she had ruined in her desperation for that love.
The fields were a stark contrast to the city's grandeur, but they were a reminder of Fang's demands and his insistence on a better life. They reached a small, makeshift shack on the edge of the fields. Inside, the space was cluttered with tools and supplies, the air heavy with the smell of earth and sweat. He gestured for her to sit on a rickety chair, his eyes cold and calculating.
"I need you to go to the city today," Fang said abruptly. "You need to talk to your father about getting me a job at the company. I've had enough of this backbreaking labor. I want something better."
Her's heart sank at the request. The thought of going to the city filled her with dread. The city was a place where her father's disdain was a tangible force, a place where she would be reminded of her failure and her role as a burden. It was a place that held her deepest regrets and unfulfilled dreams. The city was a graveyard of her hopes and aspirations, a reminder of everything she had sacrificed for a love that could never be hers.
"I'll do it," She said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll go to the city and speak to my father."
Fang's expression softened slightly, but his eyes remained hard. "Good. And make sure you tell him that I expect a position with some real authority. I've worked hard enough, and I deserve to be recognized for it."
She nodded, her mind racing with the implications of his demand. She knew that securing a position in the city would be a difficult task, especially given her father's disdain for her and the role she had been forced into. But she also knew that defiance was not an option.
As she left the fields and made her way toward the city, Her's thoughts were filled with anxiety and fear. The city was not just a destination; it was a symbol of her past and the weight of her mistakes. It was a place where her love for someone who could never truly be hers had led to the destruction of her own life and the life of her friend.
The journey to the city was long and exhausting. The roads were muddy and treacherous, the rain from the previous night having left them in poor condition. Her's prosthetic leg made the journey even more difficult, each step a painful reminder of her compromised mobility.
By the time she reached the city, the sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the skyline. The city was alive with activity, the streets bustling with people and vehicles. Papa made her way to her father's office, her heart pounding with anxiety.
The office was a grand building, a symbol of the wealth and power her father had amassed over the years. As she entered the lobby, the staff greeted her with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. They were aware of her status as a burden, a figure of pity within the family.
She was ushered into her father's office, the opulent space a stark contrast to the simplicity of her life in the village. Her father, Mr. Tian, sat behind a large mahogany desk, his expression one of cold detachment. He looked up as she entered, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of irritation and disdain.
"You," he said curtly. "What brings you here?"
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain composed. "Papa, Fang asked me to speak with you. He wants a position at the company, something with more responsibility. He's tired of the labor in the fields and believes he deserves better."
Mr. Tian's eyes darkened, his expression hardening. "Papa, you say? And why should I consider his request?"
Her's heart sank. She knew her father's disdain for her was deep, but she had hoped that her plea might sway him. "He's worked hard, Papa.. I… I just wanted to ask if there's something you could do for him."
Mr. Tian's gaze was unyielding. "Misha, you know how I feel about this arrangement. Fang is a burden, just like you. I agreed to this marriage out of a sense of duty, not out of any affection for him or you."
The words were like a physical blow, each one a reminder of her place in the world. Her's voice wavered as she spoke. "Please, Papa. Just… just consider it. For me."
Mr. Tian's expression softened slightly, but his eyes remained cold. "I will consider it, but I'm not promising anything. I cannot simply accommodate every whim of your husband."
She nodded, her heart heavy with disappointment and despair. She had hoped for a different response, a glimmer of hope, but instead, she was met with the same indifference she had come to expect since childhood. As she left the office, her mind was filled with a sense of resignation and defeat.