The morning air carried the sharp, biting chill of late autumn, pressing against the heavy glass windows of the master suite. The massive oak wardrobe stood open, its dark interior reflecting the muted light of dawn as Shivanya meticulously folded her clothes, her hands moving with a practiced, mechanical precision. Every garment she selected was conservative, chosen to hide the lingering, purple-and-yellow bruises that mapped her skin—mute testimonies of the past weeks under Abhimaan's unrelenting hand.

Abhimaan stood by the edge of the plush king-sized bed, adjusting the cuffs of a crisp, charcoal-grey tailored suit. His movements were calculated, exuding an effortless, predatory authority. He watched her reflection in the full-length gilded mirror, tracking every shiver, every hesitant breath she took.