A week had passed since the Pehli Rasoi, and the Haveli had settled into a rhythm of quiet domesticity and hidden glances. The monsoon clouds hung heavy over Chandanpur, casting a soft, humid glow over the golden crop fields. Inside, the kitchen was once again bustling. Meera, now fully established as the "Chhoti Malkin," was busy supervising the afternoon meal.

The heat from the large brass pots was intense, but today, it felt suffocating. As Meera lifted a heavy platter of steaming rice to take to the dining hall, a sudden, sharp wave of dizziness hit her. The world tilted on its axis; the golden pillars of the Haveli seemed to spin, and the rhythmic sound of the raindrops outside turned into a dull roar in her ears.