The mansion lay in stillness, the afterglow of celebration now a hollow quiet. The echoes of what should have been laughter, music, and blessing clawed at Prakhar’s chest. Moonlight spilled across the polished floors, painting long shadows that reached for him like accusations.

He stood in the center of the grand hall, his coat hanging loosely from one hand, shoulders rigid, jaw locked. His face carried exhaustion, guilt buried deep, and the faintest trace of disappointment—directed less at others and more at himself. The hall, stripped of people but still draped in reception decor, seemed to mock him in silence.