The morning sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the massive Rathore kitchen, casting pale, cold shafts of light across the pristine marble countertops. The storm from the previous night had cleared, leaving behind a heavy, damp chill that clung to the air and matched the frigid atmosphere inside the house.

Shivanya stood over the large stainless-steel stove, her hands moving with quiet, practiced rhythm as she rolled out fresh dough for breakfast. Beside her, Naina worked in silence, her movements sluggish, her eyes still shadowed with the lingering trauma of the previous day's violence and the secret terror of her discovered contraceptives.