The morning after the confrontation was drenched in gold. Sunlight poured through the carved jharokhas of the Chauhan estate, spilling like honey across marble floors and half-open doors. The air pulsed with the music of celebration — dholaks thudding from the courtyard, the ring of laughter from women gossiping in corners, the distant clatter of utensils from the kitchen.

Florists darted through the gardens, their hands full of marigolds. The cooks yelled over the aroma of ghee and cardamom. Little cousins ran wild between the pillars, leaving trails of rose petals and giggles in their wake. The mansion was alive — chaotic, glowing, breathing.