The Sharma household pulsed with a new rhythm, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and the faint cries of a newborn echoing from Radhika's room. Months had passed since Vijay's night of salve and wrath, a fleeting tenderness buried under the weight of his control. Radhika's labor had come swiftly, and now, in the humid dawn of a late monsoon, her son—a healthy boy named Aryan—was the family's triumph, the heir they'd craved. The courtyard, adorned with fresh marigolds for a naming ceremony, shimmered with celebration, but beneath the joy, tensions simmered, sharper than ever.

Aradhya moved through the house, her hands raw from Meena's relentless tasks—scrubbing floors, washing ceremonial linens, polishing brass lamps. The welts from Vijay's bamboo stick had faded, but new bruises marked her arms from carrying heavy water buckets, Meena's latest torment. Her heart ached, the baby's cries a constant reminder of her barrenness, yet her defiance burned, a vow to endure. I'm still here, she thought, preparing kheer for the guests, even if I'm nothing to them.