The Roy estate's dining hall shimmered under gilded lamps, the long mahogany table laden with silver platters of spiced mutton, saffron pulao, and steaming curries, the air thick with cumin and seething resentment. Aradhya stood at the hall's edge, her emerald saree—chosen by Siddharth to signal her role—clinging to her bruised frame, her claustrophobia stirring as the towering walls and heavy velvet curtains loomed like a cage. Her second week as Siddharth's wife had been a relentless grind: wrangling maids, balancing accounts, and dodging Shweta and Aasha's venom under the elders' unrelenting scorn. Tonight's grand dinner, hosting local elites, was a gauntlet, her defiance a fading spark against Siddharth's iron rules: run the household flawlessly, carry the Roy name, never speak his name or defy him openly.