The air in the master bedroom of the Singh haveli was thick and suffocating, smelling of expensive tobacco, aged wood, and the raw, metallic scent of absolute power. Veer Singh stood by the heavy oak door, the bolt clicking into place with a finality that echoed like a death knell in lila’s ears. He didn't look like the Surpanch of the village at this moment; he looked like a predator who had finally cornered a prize he had been tracking for months.

Lila stood by the large, four-poster bed, her eighteen-year-old frame trembling so violently that her knees threatened to give way. The lush curves she had tried to hide under her simple maid's attire were now fully exposed, as Veer had already torn the dupatta from her shoulders and thrown it into the corner like a piece of trash. He walked toward her, his heavy boots thudding against the Persian rug, his eyes dark with a ruthless, singular focus.