The Roy estate's air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and lingering tension as night fell, the dining hall's bitter echoes fading into silence. In Siddharth and Aradhya's bedroom, a cavernous space with high ceilings and silk drapes, the walls seemed to press inward, feeding Aradhya's claustrophobia. The 20-year-old stood by the carved wooden bed, her emerald saree—chosen by Siddharth—clinging to her bruised frame, her hands trembling, her breath shallow. The dinner's success had been a fragile shield against Shweta, Aasha, and the elders' scorn, but Siddharth's sharp warning against her defiance lingered, a yoke on her fragile resilience.

Siddharth entered, his black kurta accentuating his tall, lean frame, his chiseled face a mask of cold intensity, his dark eyes smoldering with restrained desire. A silver cuff glinted at his wrist, his swept-back black hair sharp under the dim lamp's glow, his presence an intimidating storm. His short temper simmered, his frustration with Aradhya's earlier defiance at the dinner—her whispered retort to the elders—still burning. He closed the door, the sound a soft thud that tightened Aradhya's chest, her claustrophobia spiking as the room felt smaller.