The living room was still echoing with the sharp crack of shattered porcelain. Fragments of the vase glistened like fallen stars against the glossy marble floor, a cruel reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. Ishita stood frozen, the broken handle clutched in her trembling hands, her heartbeat pounding louder than the silence that followed.
Aarav Rathod-tall, sharp, a storm wrapped in a bespoke charcoal suit-stood across from her, rubbing the side of his head where the vase had struck. His jaw was clenched, his eyes-those molten brown eyes-fixed on her with a mixture of shock and simmering disbelief.
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