The grand hallway of the Thakur Haveli, usually a place of quiet, regal dignity, felt like a courtroom where the sentence was about to be read. The air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old wood, expensive incense, and the bitter copper of unshed tears.

Manish’s footsteps were rhythmic, heavy, and echoing...a sound that signaled a storm was coming. He didn't let go of Ayushi’s wrist; he held her as if she were a banner he was carrying into battle, his fingers a tight shackle that spoke of both ownership and a strange, desperate protection.