The Singhaniya Tower office wasn't just expensive, it was engineered to intimidate.

Twenty-two floor.

Glass walls overlooking half the city.

Floors of black marble polished to a cold shine.

The kind of place where men negotiated fortunes without ever raising their voices.

Maulik adjusted his cufflinks in the reflection of the elevator doors before he stepped out. He couldn't afford to look rattled even though his stomach had been a tight knot since dawn.

Arvind was standing when Maulik entered, hands clasped behind him, looking out at the skyline.

"Maulik," he said without turning. "Sit."

It wasn't a suggestion.

Maulik obeyed. Arvind joined him a moment later, settling into the leather chair opposite with the calm assurance of a man who'd never had to rush for anything.

"You look stressed," Arvind said. "Unnecessary."

Maulik cleared his throat. "I thought you might've heard-"

Arvind raised a hand. "Rumors? Please. In our industry, rumors expire in forty-eight hours unless someone fans the flame. No one cares who looked at whom at a party."

Maulik exhaled, relief loosening his spine.

Arvind leaned forward slightly.

"What matters is control. People talk only when they think a man has lost control of his house."

He let that hang in the air sharp, deliberate.

Maulik nodded quickly. "I assure you, there's no loss of control."

"Good."

A faint smile curved Arvind's lips brief and cutting.

"Because a man unable to manage his daughter cannot manage an alliance."

Maulik swallowed. "Of course."

Arvind clicked open a folder on his desk.

"Now. There will be a formal dinner. Five days from today. Both families present."

Maulik blinked. "Five days?"

"You have objections?"

"Not at all," he said quickly. "Five days is perfect."

"Good," Arvind said, closing the folder. "We will finalize matters that night. I expect the girl to be well-presented."

His tone made the meaning clear.

Manageable.

Pleasant.

Obedient.

Maulik forced a smile.

"She will be."

Arvind leaned back, satisfied.

"Then we're done here."

Dismissed.

Maulik stood, thanked him, and left with a mixture of relief and simmering anger.

Sunaina had nearly cost him this.

Five days. That's all he needed to put her back into shape.

Same day,

Kapoor House,

Sunaina's POV

The Kapoor mansion was spotless as always gleaming floors, thick carpets, decadent chandeliers. The kind of house people photographed for magazines, pretending it reflected "family values."

There were no values here. Just money, masks, and threats.

I was on the living room couch when Maulik walked in, his steps sharp, confident. Kriti followed behind him, wearing a silk saree and a smile too polished to be real.

Kriti spoke first. "Arvind Singhania called you?"

Maulik nodded, pouring himself a drink from the bar cabinet. "The alliance is fine. Rumors don't matter. He trusts I know how to handle my own daughter."

Kriti smirked. "He's not wrong."

Maulik continued, "There's a family dinner. Five days from now. Formal."

She clapped her hands once, delighted. "Perfect. We'll show them we're still the better family."

Both their faces carried the same look: triumph.

Not joy.

Triumph.

Victory in a game I never agreed to play.

Maulik turned to me.

"You heard what I said. Five days. That's enough for your marks to lighten. Use the prescription. Don't skip a single application."

His voice had softened into that cold, managerial tone the one he used when he was done being violent and ready to be strategic again.

I kept my voice flat. "I understand."

Kriti eyed me. "You look drained. Go rest in your room."

I swallowed. "Actually the doctor said I should sleep at my apartment. My mattress is better for my back. And there's more quiet there."

They exchanged a brief look barely two seconds.

But greed makes people careless.

"That's fine," Maulik said, waving his hand dismissively. "Rest there. Just recover properly. We need you looking perfect."

"And don't forget the ointments," Kriti added. "Twice a day."

"I won't," I said.

Neither of them noticed how slowly I stood.

How my hand trembled as I picked up my bag.

How I walked with careful, measured steps so the bandages didn't pull.

They didn't notice anything that wasn't convenient to their goals.

The driver opened the back door for me.

He didn't look at my face.

He never did.

He was paid not to.

The car rolled out of the Kapoor gate past the manicured lawns, past the fountain lit with white lights, past the guards who saluted a house they probably feared more than they respected.

Once the car entered the main road, I leaned my head against the window.

Twenty-five minutes.

Only twenty-five minutes between two different prisons.

Halfway through the route, we slowed near a small park.

Children were playing running, laughing, chasing bubbles that floated upward like tiny silver moons.

A little girl tripped and scraped her knee.

Her father ran to her instantly lifting her, checking the wound, brushing her hair back from her face.

My throat tightened without warning.

I blinked, hard.

Another scene played across the park-

a mother feeding her toddler tiny pieces of cut fruit, smiling each time he spilled juice on himself.

A man pushing his son on a swing.

A girl hugging her mother's legs and refusing to let go.

My vision blurred.

The tears came before I could stop them.

Not soft tears.

Not gentle.

Deep, chest-wrenching sobs the kind that come from places you don't visit often.

I pressed my hand over my mouth, but it didn't help.

The pain tore through me the kind that has nothing to do with bruises.

I remembered my mother's hands.

Her gentle fingers fixing my hair.

Her soft voice telling me I was hers, no matter what the world became.

Her arms around me when I cried.

She was the only softness I ever had.

And she died.

And all her love died with her.

The tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.

The driver glanced at me in the mirror once.

Just once.

Then looked away.

Silent.

Unmoving.

Paid to observe nothing.

I cried the whole length of the park.

And a little longer after.

By the time we reached my locality, my throat was raw.

Her apartment building was tall, modern, elegant glass balconies, white stone, quiet hallways scented with jasmine diffusers. The kind of place people associated with independence and freedom.

If only they knew.

The car stopped at the entrance. I wiped the tears quickly and pulled out the oversized sunglasses I always carried. I slipped on a mask too not for health reasons, but for dignity.

Bruises didn't belong in public.

Not mine, anyway.

The driver came around and opened my door.

"Madam," he said softly. No emotion. Just procedure.

I stepped out carefully, feeling the ache behind my ribs.

Inside the lobby, guests and residents moved around with the relaxed pace of people whose biggest worry was delayed food delivery or office deadlines.

No one suspected the girl with sunglasses and a mask was hiding belt marks under a designer coat.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hum.

As I rose floor by floor, the city unfolding through the glass panel behind me, the weight in my chest settled.

Not relief. Not safety.

Just silence.

And sometimes silence is the closest thing to peace a person gets.