The house was quieter than usual, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath after the catastrophe that had annihilated the Sharmas' pristine image. Hema was gone. Vikram Sharma — once a man revered in corridors of wealth and power — now moved like a shadow through his own estate, hunted, hollowed, and hated.
Anya had not slept. Not truly. Her dreams were laced with blood and betrayal. Each time she blinked, she saw her mother's lifeless face, her father's trembling hands, and the cold stillness in Viktor Volkov's eyes.
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