The Birla family mansion in Udaipur slept under a blanket of quiet, a profound stillness that felt heavier than the night itself. The grand dinner—a ritual of polite conversation, familiar laughter, and perfectly arranged plates—had concluded hours ago. Dr. Anand and Dr. Mahima Birla had retreated to their wing.

Harshvardhan and Manjri Birla were in theirs. The cousins were in their respective rooms, the sprawling house settling into its nocturnal rhythm of respectability. Akshara Birla had moved through it all with a practiced grace. She’d eaten, conversed, smiled, and bid goodnight with the warmth expected of her. She’d received Abhimanyu’s text—“Not coming home. Surgery ended late. Staying on-site for emergency watch.”—and replied with the supportive love of a wife. Then she’d walked to their shared bedroom, the one that felt too large, too empty when Abhimanyu wasn’t there. Akshara changed into a simple cotton nighty, the fabric soft against her skin, and slid into the cool sheets alone.