The Rathore mansion had slowly settled after the dinner. Crystal chandeliers reflected warm light over the polished mahogany dining table. The conversation had been flowing—polite laughter, occasional teasing—but the undercurrent of tension remained thick. Rudra sat at the head of the table, his posture perfect, his dark eyes scanning the room. He spoke rarely, every word measured. Only one person ever caught a flicker of softness in him, and that was Gauri.
As the families finished dessert, Rudra leaned back slightly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his glass. Silence fell; all eyes turned toward him.
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