One evening....
The Rawat mansion lay hushed under the weight of a late evening, the kind where even the servants moved like shadows, careful not to disturb the stillness. Dinner had passed in near-silence—Virat barely spoke, barely ate, his shoulders bowed under some invisible burden he refused to name. Ishani watched him from across the table, worry carving soft lines between her brows. When he rose without a word and headed straight upstairs, she followed without hesitation, the soft chime of her payal trailing behind her like a quiet heartbeat.

She found him already on the bed, still in his office shirt and trousers, shoes kicked off haphazardly near the footboard. The room was dim, lit only by the low golden glow of the bedside lamp. He hadn’t bothered to change, hadn’t even pulled back the covers—just collapsed face-down, one arm flung across the pillow, breathing already deep and uneven.