Gayatri’s eyes burned with anger as she sat stiffly on the woven cot in the middle of the hall. The early morning sunlight filtered through the wooden windows, falling across the faded red flooring of the haveli. The house was slowly waking up — servants moving around quietly, utensils clinking faintly from the kitchen, the smell of boiling tea spreading through the air — but the tension inside the hall was heavier than anything else.

Siddharth stood in front of her with folded arms, calm on the outside though irritation slowly built inside him.