The cool, midnight air of the Rathore estate’s sprawling central courtyard offered little relief from the suffocating tension hanging thick over the family. In the quiet, moonlit garden, Srishti, Anika, and Naina sat together on a wrought-iron bench, their figures cloaked in the heavy shadows of blooming night-jessamine. A moment later, the soft, uneven scuff of footsteps announced Shivanya’s arrival. She stepped out into the open air, holding a sleeping Abhimanyu securely in her arms, his small form carefully wrapped in a thick, woolen shawl to shield him from the sharp nocturnal chill.

Srishti turned her gaze instantly toward her younger daughter, her voice dropping into a sharp, reprimanding tone that carried years of conditioned domestic governance.