Shruthi stopped beside the sofa, her saree draped with terrifying perfection. She held a glass of ice-cold water, her eyes fixed on his resting face.
"If you don't get up and come to my heels on my command," she whispered, her voice like a cold wind, "then next time, I will wash your face with my saliva."
Before he could even register the threat, Shruthi tilted her hand. The ice-cold water hit Rohit’s face like a physical blow. He gasped, bolting upright as the freezing liquid soaked into his collar and skin.
He looked up at her, dripping and humiliated, his heart racing. Shruthi didn't offer a towel. She simply looked down at him with utter boredom.
"Next time, remember this sensation when you choose to ignore my command," she said, turning her back on him. "Now, get to your knees and dry the floor. Use your shirt."
