The haveli was silent, wrapped in the deep velvet of a moonless night. Somewhere in the distance, a single dog barked at a ghost only it could see, then fell quiet. The old stone walls of the Rathore ancestral home had witnessed generations of secrets, but none quite like the three people gathered in the lamp lit bedroom on the upper floor.

Meera sat on the edge of the massive, carved wooden bed, her hands folded in her lap, her heart a wild horse galloping against her ribs. She wore a simple cotton night kurta, pale yellow, chosen not for seduction but for comfort. Yet the way both brothers looked at her, standing on opposite sides of the room, made the innocent fabric feel like the most indecent lingerie.