The evening dinner table in the Singh mansion was a picture of polished normalcy. Vikrant's father sat at the head, his voice commanding as he discussed the latest assembly session with his elder son. His mother and sister chatted animatedly about an upcoming wedding in the family. The clink of silverware and the rich aroma of mutton curry, fresh rotis, and spiced dal filled the air, creating an atmosphere of comfortable privilege.

Gauri served quietly in her modest light-blue salwar kameez, dupatta pinned neatly over her shoulders. She moved with care, her steps measured because every shift reminded her of the intensity of the past days. A slight limp lingered, subtle but there, from how Vikrant had taken her so roughly, so completely.