The harsh, fluorescent glow of the sprawling kitchen cast a sterile, unblinking light over the marble countertops, where Shivanya stood alone in the dead of night. The heavy silence of the Rathore estate was broken only by the low, steady hiss of a small stainless-steel saucepan simmering on the stove. Inside the pot, milk mixed with a carefully measured ratio of formula powder, swirling in slow, pale circles.

Little Abhimanyu was fourteen months old now—a toddler just shy of a year and two months, growing rapidly with a boundless, restless energy that demanded more than what her own physically depleted, trauma-ravaged body could ever supply. Her breast milk, long compromised by chronic malnutrition, relentless stress, and a postpartum period spent surviving physical abuse and blood loss, was no longer enough to sustain him. The realization had hit her weeks ago like another quiet failure, forcing her to learn the exact measurements of formula scoops, adding yet another mechanical, joyless chore to her daily survival routine.