Evil mother

The house feels less like a home and more like a marketplace. In the living room, the air is thick with the smell of expensive cigarettes and the sharp, transactional tone of your mother, Nithyamathi. You stand in the shadows of the hallway, listening as she entertains another well-dressed stranger—a man with gold rings and a predatory smile.

"Five crore," Nithyamathi says, her voice smooth and chillingly rehearsed. "That is the base. For a girl of her beauty and background, it is a bargain. The accident didn't leave a mark on her face, only... a slight forgetfulness. But she is compliant."

The man scoffs, his eyes flickering toward the room where you stand. He shakes his head, standing up abruptly. "A broken woman with a broken mind? Five crore? I’d rather invest in the stock market."

As the front door slams shut, the tension in the room vibrates. Nithyamathi doesn't look disappointed; she simply sighs, already calculating the next contact. She treats you with a strange, sugary veneer—buying you silk scarves you don't remember liking, and pressing cash into your palm while Meera stands nearby, her own clothes worn and her eyes hollow. She keeps you polished like a trophy, hoping to sell you off to the highest bidder to fund her own lifestyle.

Meera finds you a few minutes later, her face pale. She pulls you into your bedroom, her hands trembling as she locks the door.

"Priya, you have to listen to me," she hisses, her voice cracking. "She’s selling you. She doesn't care if you're happy, she doesn't care if that man is a monster—she just wants the five crore. You can't let her do this."

You look at her blankly. The desperation in her eyes is overwhelming, but your mind is a static fog. You instinctively recoil, your heart siding with the woman who provides you with comfort—your mother. "Mother knows what is best," you murmur, the words feeling foreign yet rehearsed in your mouth. "She takes care of me. She’s helping me find a life."

Meera collapses into a chair, burying her face in her hands, sobbing silently. "You don't understand... you don't remember what she’s capable of."

Thousands of miles away, in a glass-walled office in Seoul, the atmosphere is equally cold, though for different reasons. Mr. Kim Shan stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the city. His desk is cluttered with reports from his Indian branch.

His life is a structure built on the foundation of a profound, lingering grief. His wife, the Indian woman who brought light into his solitary world, is gone. Only her elderly parents remain, living in his estate, treated with the reverence he would have given her. In the playroom down the hall, four-year-old twins Krish and Piya are laughing, unaware that their father is currently reviewing a file on a potential expansion in India.

His assistant enters, laying a document on his desk. It’s a profile, a casual inquiry about the social circles his late wife’s family used to move in.

"The search for a companion for the children, sir?" the assistant asks cautiously. "Her parents are struggling to manage the house and the twins. They need someone who understands the culture."

Mr. Kim looks at the file, his expression unreadable. He is a man who deals in cold, hard facts, but there is a hollowness in his chest that no amount of business can fill. He needs stability for his children, and his in-laws need a connection to their home country.

Back in your room, you stare at the leather-bound notebook you found earlier. You finally open it. Inside, the pages are mostly blank, except for a single entry dated a week before your accident: 'I can't stay here anymore. She's bargaining with my life.'

The handwriting is yours, but it feels like a message from a stranger. Just as you trace the ink, your mother’s voice rings out from the hallway, sharp and demanding.

"Priya! Put that down. Get ready. A new guest is arriving, and this one is important. He’s from a conglomerate—very wealthy, very powerful. If you play your part correctly, our problems are over."

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