The night stretched long and merciless in the Rawat mansion. Ishani lay beneath the heavy comforter of Virat’s bed, the gathbandhan still twisted between her fingers like a rope she couldn’t let go of. Sleep refused to come. Every time she closed her eyes, the memories surged—his weight pinning her, the filthy stretch of him inside her, the way her body had clenched and shuddered in betrayal even as she cried. The room smelled faintly of him: sandalwood cologne, leather, something darker, masculine. It was suffocating.

Eventually she slipped out of bed, bare feet silent on the cool marble, robe tied loosely over her nighty. She wandered the dimly lit corridors like a ghost—past framed family photographs, down the grand staircase, through the shadowed living room where moonlight spilled silver across the pool outside. The house was vast, quiet, full of secrets she didn’t want to learn.