Ishani's hands stilled, the marigold slipping from her fingers to roll across the stone floor like a fallen sun. Veer. The name hit her like a half-remembered dream, gentle and faded. She straightened, smoothing her saree, the mangalsutra's pendant cool against her skin. A bride? Her mind raced—hadn't he been in the accident, recovering in that distant hospital? Whispers had trickled in: he'd been quiet, withdrawn. But a bride?

By the time she reached the main gates, the family had gathered like storm clouds. Maa stood at the forefront, her dupatta clutched tight in gnarled hands, face a mask of thunder. Papa, Virat's father, leaned on his cane, his once-booming voice silenced by age and now this betrayal. The aunts clustered behind, murmurs rising like steam from a kettle.