The convoy rolled through the wrought-iron gates of Rawat Residency under the deepening Delhi night, the mansion rising like a quiet sentinel against the skyline. Unlike the Sinha house—garish with its endless lights, fountains, and ostentatious marble—this place was vast, understated power: sprawling lawns, a moonlit swimming pool that reflected stars in silver ripples, manicured gardens whispering in the breeze. It spoke of old money, restraint, and secrets kept behind thick walls.

Ishani stepped out of the car on unsteady legs, the heavy lehenga dragging like an anchor. Virat walked ahead without a backward glance, his sherwani still pristine, shoulders rigid. She followed him to the threshold, where Anaya waited—bright-eyed, thaal in hand, the traditional welcome glowing softly in the lamplight.