Midnight inside the Sharma mansion did not bring peace; it only brought a heavier silence.

In the privacy of her bedroom, Anika sat on the edge of her unmade canopy bed, surrounded by the shadows of a room that felt more like a beautifully decorated cage. Her head was bowed, her fingers buried deep in her dark hair as she stared at the floor. The heavy emerald ring on her finger—a family heirloom that felt less like jewelry and more like a shackle—glinted in the dim, warm light of a single bedside lamp.