The Kapoor mansion stood tall at the edge of South Mumbai, a place that looked more like a palace than a home. White marble floors reflected the soft golden glow of crystal chandeliers, and the faint scent of fresh lilies lingered in the air. It was the kind of place most people only saw in magazines — sprawling gardens, a fountain at the entrance, and a driveway wide enough for a dozen luxury cars. But for eighteen-year-old Vanya, lovingly called Vani by her family, it was simply home.

She padded barefoot through the long corridor, her dark hair bouncing softly against her shoulders as she hummed a tune under her breath. The evening sun filtered in through tall glass windows, painting the walls in amber light. For all its grandeur, the mansion never felt cold or empty — not when her brother and bhabhi were around.