The afternoon sun draped Aarav’s estate in gold, turning every hedge and flowerbed in the garden into living, glowing sculptures. But Inaaya remained indoors, her gaze tethered to the glass panels of the hallway, her fingers brushing against the cool pane as though the garden beyond was another world entirely—a world she no longer belonged to.

The silence in the house had become a constant, more oppressive than any of the velvet drapes or crystal chandeliers. Every ticking clock and distant footstep struck her nerves like a lash. Each breath echoed louder than it should have, each blink felt drawn out, almost like she existed in a time loop—still, silent, suffocating.