Ruhi stood frozen, heart pounding in her ears. The room felt too still, too quiet—like the world had stopped just long enough for her to witness its ruin.

The woman on the bed didn’t move. Her body was elegant but slack—the kind of stillness that came not from rest but from surrender. The silk robe had slipped off one shoulder, revealing a bruise the color of violets blooming in winter. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair tangled, but her beauty still carried that cruel, haunting perfection only the rich seemed to have.