The Singh household was deceptively quiet. Raghav sat at the head of the dining table, scrolling through his phone, oblivious to the tension coiling in the room like a snake preparing to strike. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, casting shifting shadows across the white marble floor.

Mitali moved between the kitchen and dining area, her saree draped conservatively, trying to maintain the facade of the dutiful daughter-in-law. But the memory of the Mela still burned on her skin—the bruises on her hips had faded to a sickly yellow, but the phantom sensation of Shiv's fist inside her haunted her waking hours.