The last of the wedding guests had departed hours ago, their laughter and blessings still seeming to echo in the haveli's vast, now-silent courtyards. The air itself felt different—charged, expectant, thick with the scent of marigolds and incense that had permeated every corner for days. The heavy wooden door to the master chamber, carved with peacocks and lotus vines, was closed. Behind it, the world narrowed to a single room, to the soft glow of oil lamps, and to the two people standing within it.

Aaradhya stood near the canopied bed, still in the breathtaking weight of her wedding lehenga. The crimson silk, heavy with zari and embroidery, felt like a second skin after the sixteen-hour day of ceremonies. The chooda bangles on her wrists clinked softly with her every slight movement. The mangalsutra, its black beads and gold pendant still unfamiliar against her sternum, felt like both an anchor and a key. Her head was bare now, the heavy dupatta and sehra removed, her hair—once intricately braided—now fell in loose, tired waves over her shoulders, still holding the faint, sweet fragrance of jasmine from the morning's gajra.