The courthouse smelled faintly of disinfectant and old papers, the kind of smell that clung to the back of the throat. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, too white, flattening everything beneath them. Voices murmured low around them—lawyers, clerks, strangers—but none of it felt real to Nisha. It was as if the world had narrowed to this single corridor of inevitability.

She stood stiffly near the counter, kurta pressed neatly, hair pulled back so tight it made her scalp ache. Her heartbeat thundered against her ribs, loud enough that she was sure someone else could hear it. Outwardly, she was composed—chin lifted, expression neutral, every inch the woman who had planned this down to the smallest detail. Inside, something trembled.