The morning sun broke over the sprawling iron gates of the Rathore estate, casting a cold, slanting light across the marble floors of the grand dining hall. Upstairs, locked within the heavy silence of the master suite, Shivanya lay curled deeply into the mattress, fast asleep with little Abhimanyu clutched securely against her chest. Since the death and cremation of Ashlok Kapoor, an eerie, subdued shift had settled over the household. The bitter, daily taunts that had once defined her existence had vanished entirely; the sharp-tongued cruelty of Srishti and the other women had evaporated, replaced not by genuine warmth, but by a hollow, uneasy caution—a silent acknowledgment that Shivanya had been reduced to an absolute, unthreatening ghost of her former self.

Downstairs, the atmosphere around the long mahogany breakfast table was charged with a volatile, silent friction. Srishti and Vidyut had already left early for a high-profile brunch meeting with allied syndicate leaders, leaving the younger generation to navigate the minefield of their own domestic prison. Abhimaan, Anika, Kritagya, Naina, and Ishanth sat around the table, the silver cutlery clinking softly against porcelain as they picked at their food.