The Sharma household burned with fury in the pre-dawn hours, the air thick with the scent of monsoon mud and the fading echo of Aradhya's sobs beyond the gate. The courtyard, smeared with her blood from Vijay's brutal lashes, lay silent under a cruel moon, the house a cauldron of rage and triumph. Inside, the family gathered in the main hall, the oil lamps casting jagged shadows, their voices a storm of venom as they tore Aradhya's name to shreds.

Radhika stood, clutching Aryan, her silk saree disheveled, her eyes blazing with a victor's fire. "That vile harlot got what she deserved!" she spat, her voice a razor. "Sneaking with a shopkeeper, shaming our blood—good riddance to her filth!" Her triumph was a mask, her heart pounding with fear of Vijay's iron will, knowing her lie had won but could unravel.