The morning sun filtered through the penthouse blinds like a reluctant witness, casting golden bars across the kitchen where Ishani moved with quiet desperation. At 23, her world had narrowed to this flat—this man—and the knot of guilt twisting in her belly. Virat's anger from last night lingered like a storm cloud, his silence a heavier chain than any words. She knew him too well: the mafia king's fury was a slow burn, but when it erupted, it scorched everything in its path. I have to fix this, she thought, her naive heart pounding with filial devotion. Make him see I'm still his good girl.