The corridors of Mehra Manor stretched long, dimly lit with the fading glow of expensive chandeliers. The house hummed with quiet life—the distant echoes of laughter from the kitchen, the occasional clatter of dishes, the hushed voices of her in-laws and Raj’s wife, Priya. It smelled of warm spices and freshly made rotis, of a household that had long learned to exist in the silent ruins of its own dysfunction.  

Ananya ignored it all.