The Roy haveli shimmered in the Bengal dusk, its marble walls suffocating under the weight of humidity. My body ached, the welts from Siddharth's belt pulsing beneath my sari, each movement a reminder of his fury days ago. In the kitchen, I balanced a tray of brass cups, my hands trembling from hours of chopping vegetables and stirring pots of dal, the heat from the stove stinging my raw skin. My arms were heavy from washing Siddharth's court shirts earlier, the coarse soap irritating my wounds. Chachi ji's voice rang from the dining hall, firm but not mocking. "Aradhya, bring the tea—our guest is waiting."