Far from the Sharma household's turmoil, the Roy estate stood like a fortress in the heart of the city, its marble floors gleaming under chandeliers, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and wealth. The Roy family, filthy rich from trade and law, ruled their home with an iron grip, their patriarchal norms harsher than the monsoon's lash. Wives dared not speak their husbands' names, a transgression met with brutal punishment—slaps or locked rooms—enforcing silence and submission. Siddharth Roy Choudhary, a lawyer whose cold demeanor chilled even the courts, strode through the grand hall, his black coat immaculate, his eyes like flint.

In the dining room, Shweta and Aasha, sisters-in-law married to Siddharth's brothers, labored over a breakfast spread—puri, halwa, chai—their hands trembling from the strain of managing the sprawling estate alone. Servants bustled, but the women bore the brunt, their husbands' names forbidden on their lips. Shweta, her saree pinned tightly, whispered to Aasha, her voice low. "This house is a beast—ten rooms, endless tasks. We need Siddharth married, or we'll break."