The sharp, sterile smell of the hospital had finally cleared from the estate by morning, taking the fractured remnants of the Kapoor family with it. They had packed up their humiliation and left the Rathore gates behind, slipping away like ghosts into the sprawling city, permanently excised from the narrative.

Inside the vast, sunlit kitchen, the air smelled of freshly ground cardamom, warm ghee, and roasted cumin. Shivanya stood at the marble island, her hands moving with quiet, practiced rhythm as she chopped vegetables, the soft clinking of her glass bangles mingling with the morning sounds of the house. Beside her, Naina leaned against the counter, her fingers idly tracing the rim of a tea glass, her face shadowed by a persistent, quiet dread.