The silver fruit knife lay abandoned several feet away, glinting dully against the imported marble tiles where it had clattered moments before. The sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood from Shivanya's nosebleed still hung in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of the crushed cigarette bud she had extinguished with her bare palm. Yet, all of her frantic, desperate rebellion had been completely neutralized in a matter of seconds.

Abhimaan’s fingers remained clamped around her upper arm, his grip an unyielding steel shackle that anchored her trembling, broken frame against his chest. The white-hot agony from her unhealed cesarean stitches flared with every ragged breath she took, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the suffocating psychological trap closing in around her.