The Sharma household lay shrouded in a stifling night, the monsoon's damp heat clinging to the walls, the air thick with the scent of wilted jasmine and Aryan's faint cries from Radhika's room. The courtyard, scoured raw by Aradhya's hands, glistened under a sliver of moon, its silence a stark contrast to the storm brewing within. Aradhya, in her cramped room, folded linens, her body aching from Meena's endless demands—scrubbing tiles, hauling water, polishing brass. The welts from Vijay's belt, buckle marks still raw, throbbed with every move, her heart a furnace of defiance and despair. I'm still alive, she thought, but they're carving me to nothing. Her resolve, though battered, burned fierce, a vow to survive for herself.

In the main hall, Radhika sat with Meena, her silk saree crumpled, her eyes blazing with venom as she rocked Aryan's cradle. "Maa, Vijay slinks to Aradhya's room every night, even now, with my son in my arms!" she spat, her voice a low hiss. "That barren wretch weaves her pain like a noose, stealing him from his heir. She's a poison in this house!"