The Sharma household woke to a dawn heavy with unspoken resentments, the air thick with the lingering scent of sandalwood from the previous night's grand puja. The courtyard, still strewn with wilted marigolds, bore the weight of the family's tensions, its stone tiles scrubbed clean by Aradhya's raw hands. Her bruises from Vijay's belt, though fading, ached with every movement, a reminder of her place in a house that revered Radhika's pregnancy above all. Aradhya's heart churned—despair at her barrenness clashed with a defiance that burned brighter after Vijay's night in her room, his arms around her, their words weaving a fragile thread of connection. He needs me, she thought, stacking breakfast plates, even if it's only as his possession. I'll endure, for myself.