Ragini stirred, her body a tangled mess of aches and regrets. The stale scent of cigarettes and spilled whiskey clung to her skin, a pungent reminder of the night before. Her eyes fluttered open, greeted by the harsh reality of a bar's floor, sticky under her fingertips. The room spun, a blur of neon lights and shadows playing tricks on her vision. Above, the ceiling fan creaked mournfully, the only witness to her disgrace.

Her head pounded as if a drummer had taken residence inside her skull. The sound grew louder, demanding her attention, until it drowned out the distant chatter of the city. She tried to sit up, but the effort was too much. The floor was sticky, and she felt something cold and metallic press against her cheek. Her heart raced as she realized what it was. Her Mangal sutra, the sacred thread of marriage, lay shattered on the table beside her. How had it come to this?