In the brothel's fetid air, thick with the stench of despair and cheap perfume, Siddharth Roy Choudhary stood like a storm in the squalor, his navy coat crisp, his sharp eyes burning with resolve. Aradhya sat in the dim, curtained room, her tattered ghagra stained with blood from Vijay's welts, her bruised arms trembling, her defiance a faint ember against her fading strength. Her dance had ignited Siddharth's desire, but her plea and story—betrayal, infertility, expulsion—had stirred his ethics, his cold heart weighing her as a pragmatic solution to his household's chaos.