The mansion loomed silent, its opulent halls echoing only with the faint hum of Atharva’s laptop and the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen. Ruhani moved with deliberate care, her hands steady as she plated the meal she had prepared. The air was thick with unspoken tension, a fragile truce hanging between them after weeks of volatile exchanges. Atharva had given her a choice—clean and cook, or submit to his desires. She had chosen the former, her voice trembling but resolute. In return, he had handed her a blister pack of pills, his tone cold and final: “Take these. I don’t want you pregnant.”