Pain and Promises

"No, I'm... I'm sorry! Please don't! Please leave me! Let go!" Myra cried, her fragile figure trembling in fear as her stepmother's hand forced her palm toward the burning candle. The searing pain made her yelp, her cries echoing in the room.

"Didn't I tell you?" her stepmother hissed, her voice laced with venom. "You're only supposed to eat after everyone else is done! How dare you eat before us, you little wretch? Trying to act smart, huh?"

Myra's hand was shoved closer to the flame, the heat scorching her skin as she sobbed uncontrollably. "Please! I won't do it again! I won't eat! It's hurting! Ahh!"

The woman finally shoved her into a corner, her eyes blazing with cruelty. "Dare to defy me again, and you'll face worse." Without another word, she locked Myra in the dark storage room, knowing full well that her stepdaughter was nyctophobic.

Terror and pain consumed Myra as she curled up on the cold floor, her burned hand throbbing. Tears streamed down her face until exhaustion overtook her, and she lost consciousness.

A faint creak of the door woke her hours later. A dim ray of light fell on her face as the housekeeper, Mrs. Sah, hurried inside. "Oh, dear, are you okay?" she asked, her voice heavy with concern.

Myra winced, her gaze falling to the large black-and-red burn on her palm. Tears welled up again as Mrs. Sah helped her to her feet and offered her a glass of water. Myra gulped it down in desperation but quickly set the glass aside, fearing her stepmother might punish her for even drinking water.

Back in her room, she sat near her bed, her head resting on it as memories of her late mother flashed before her. "Why did you leave me, Mom? Why didn't you take me with you?" she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Her sorrow was interrupted by a loud knock on her door. Her stepmother barged in, her expression twisted with annoyance. "Stop your drama and get ready by 5! Your father's holding a function tonight to celebrate his new deal. There will be many rich and famous CEOs, so don't ruin this for us. Keep your mouth shut unless spoken to," she barked before slamming the door shut.

Defeated, Myra opened her mother's old suitcase, her only treasure, and found a beautiful cherry-colored saree. Her heart ached with bittersweet nostalgia—her mother had worn this often, looking like a goddess. Myra decided to wear it, and when she looked in the mirror, her reflection stunned her. She looked divine, with soft, wavy hair cascading to her waist and silver bangles glinting on her wrists.

Nervousness consumed her as she descended the stairs to the crowded party. She felt the weight of countless eyes on her, their admiration making her even more anxious. Her stepmother quickly rushed to her, gripping her arm tightly. "Trying to get attention, aren't you? Don't forget to keep that mouth of yours shut!" she hissed, dragging Myra to meet the guests.

Myra's beauty captivated everyone, but she remained quiet, her smile strained. When the moment came, she slipped away, seeking refuge in solitude. Draping her saree's pallu over her face, she hurried toward the old, abandoned gazebo, hoping to escape the crowd.

But as she ran through the dark path, she collided with something—or someone. She stumbled, closing her eyes in fear, but a pair of strong arms caught her.

She opened her eyes to find a man holding her. He was tall, with a sharp jawline, piercing brown eyes, and an aura of danger that made her heart race. His arm was firm around her waist, the other holding a cigarette that he lazily tossed aside.

"Beautiful," he whispered, his gaze burning into hers.

Terrified and overwhelmed, Myra pushed away from his grip and ran as fast as she could. Behind her, the stranger chuckled darkly, his voice echoing in the silence. "We'll meet again," he murmured.

Myra's heart pounded in her chest as she staggered away from the man, her mind in a whirlwind of confusion and fear. The darkness of the path stretched out before her, the silence pressing in on her like a suffocating blanket. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she glanced behind, half-expecting him to be right on her heels. But when she dared to look, the man was still standing by the gazebo, his eyes following her with an intensity that made her skin crawl and her stomach churn.

She felt exposed, vulnerable under his gaze. Her footsteps faltered as she tried to regain her composure, her mind racing for a way to escape the memory of those sharp, knowing eyes. Myra's mind was still locked in the moment she had collided with him—how his touch had felt both foreign and oddly familiar. His firm grasp had steadied her, yet it sent an electric shock through her, making her skin burn with a strange heat she couldn't understand. He had whispered something—something she couldn't quite remember—but the weight of his words lingered, like a haunting promise.

Her heart beat faster as she quickened her pace, the soft fabric of her saree brushing against her legs. Each step felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the lingering effects of his presence. It wasn't just fear that consumed her now; it was something more complex, something she couldn't name but felt deeply within her chest. The vulnerability she had felt in his arms was mingling with an odd sense of intrigue, as if the man wasn't just a stranger, but a key to something much larger than her fractured reality.

As she rounded a corner of the estate, she found herself near the old stone fountain in the garden, her safe haven when the world became too much to bear. The soft sound of water trickling from the fountain did little to soothe her. The night air was cold, and the sting of her burned hand returned with full force, reminding her of the cruelty she had just endured. Myra raised her palm to her chest, eyes closing as she tried to shut out the memory of her stepmother's cruelty.

She stayed hidden in the shadows, hoping the man hadn't followed her. But in the stillness of the night, she couldn't shake the feeling that he would. And worse yet—she wasn't sure whether to fear or to welcome it.