The highest tower of Rathore Niwas had always been a place of isolation, but it was no longer a prison. Shaurya had ordered the walls of the attic suite torn down and replaced with floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass, transforming the dark storage space into a cathedral of light. It was a studio that overlooked the entirety of Mumbai—the shimmering lights of the Marine Drive, the distant silhouettes of the skyscrapers, and, if one looked far enough to the east, the hazy, smoke-filled horizon where the industrial slums lay.

For weeks, the studio had remained a pristine museum of artistic intent. Vivaan had stocked it with the finest Belgian linens, Italian charcoal, and sable brushes that cost more than a year's wages in the chawl. Yet, the canvases remained white, mocking the brothers with their emptiness. Ananya would sit in the center of the room, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the horizon. She was the Sovereign of an empire, the owner of the very air they breathed, but she still carried herself like a ghost trespassing in a house of the living.