It started with missing cash.

Not much. Just enough to be noticed.

"Paise kam hain," an uncle said that evening, checking a drawer. "Yahin rakhe the."

"Kal hi dekhe the," an aunt replied.

The room stilled.

Eyes shifted.

Someone glanced—just briefly—at Meenakshi.

She felt it immediately. Her shoulders tensed.

"Kaun aaya tha idhar?" the uncle asked.

The maid shook her head. "Main nahi."

Another pause.

Meenakshi's mouth went dry.

"I didn't—" she began, then stopped herself. No one had accused her. Yet.

Viraj stood near the door, listening.

"Tum din bhar ghar mein rehti ho," an aunt said, tone neutral but sharp. "Tumne kuch dekha?"

Meenakshi shook her head quickly. "Nahi. Mujhe kuch nahi pata."

Her voice was barely audible.

"Haan, par tum market bhi gayi thi," someone added. "Aur tumne kuch khareeda bhi nahi."

She swallowed. "Mujhe zarurat nahi thi."

The words sounded weak even to her.

Viraj's gaze lingered on her for half a second longer this time. Not concerned. Assessing.

"Bas," his grandmother said finally. "Baad mein dekhenge."

The room exhaled.

Meenakshi did not.

That night, she counted her coins again with shaking fingers and hid them deeper than before.

She didn't sleep.