Anika steps forward. For a moment, she sees the photograph of the woman on the table. Her expression softens—just a flicker. Then she hardens again.

“That’s her. The hurricane.”

She walks past him. Her shoulder brushes his. For one second, a crack in the ice. Shivaay’s jaw tightens.

“Family. It’s a word people throw around like confetti. But in this house, family is a contract. And I am the signatory.”

“I don’t need a room. I need a contract. You stay on your side of the marble. I stay on mine. And by the end of this week, you’ll be the one begging me to stay.”