They didn't sleep that night.

They sat on Mehera's bed and talked. For hours. About everything. About nothing.

Mehera told Aashi about taking over the company at 21 when her father fell ill. About the weight of being the eldest. About the loneliness of being in charge.

Aashi told Mehera about growing up in Jodhpur. About her love for painting. About how she'd married Arjun because her parents asked her to, not because she loved him.

"Do you love him?" Mehera asked quietly.

Aashi considered the question honestly. "I care about him. He's... kind. But I don't love him. Not the way a wife should."

"Does he love you?"

"He loves his work. His phone. His cricket team."

Mehera's jaw tightened. "He's a fool."

"He's your brother."

"And he's still a fool."

Aashi laughed. Actually laughed. And Mehera felt that sound settle somewhere deep in her chest, like a bird finding its nest.

"What do we do?" Aashi asked.

"We be careful," Mehera said. "We protect you. This—" she gestured between them, "—this stays between these walls. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not the family. Not society. Not even me."

"What if I don't want to hide?"

Mehera's expression darkened. "Aashi, if anyone finds out—"

"I know. I know what happens."

"This isn't a movie. This is real life. Real consequences."

"I know."

"Then you know why we have to be careful."

Aashi reached for Mehera's hand. Laced their fingers together.

"I'd rather be careful with you," she said softly, "than reckless without you."

Mehera squeezed her hand.

And for the first time in twenty-eight years, she felt something she'd never felt before.

Hope.