The morning sun was harsh and unforgiving, casting long shadows across the manicured lawns of the Raizada mansion. The garden, usually a place of peace and quiet, had been transformed into something else entirely—a shooting range, with targets lined up near the old banyan tree, and Kabir standing in the center, a pistol in his hand, his eyes focused and cold.

Sitara had woken up early, her first thought of the mark on her neck. She had stood in front of the small mirror in her room, inspecting the bruise—dark purple, angry, unmistakable. No amount of cold water or concealer could hide it completely. She had wrapped her dupatta carefully, pulling the fabric high against her throat, and left her hair loose, falling in dark waves over her shoulders.