"He didn't kill himself," Aradhana said, looking directly at Meera. "He was killed. By the same person who's been poisoning Yash. By the same person who convinced Dad to disown me." She paused, letting the rain fill the silence. "By the same person who is, right now, wearing a wire under her silk robe because the police are waiting outside."

Now, the gates groaned open.

"Beautiful," said Rajveer, the youngest Mahajan—the one everyone thought was a harmless playboy. "Absolutely theatrical. But you forgot one thing, Didi." He descended, phone in hand, a live video already streaming. "I've been recording this conversation. The whole world is about to know that the Mahajan princess came home to bury us, not save us."

Yash went pale. Meera's smile flickered. And from the spiral staircase above, a slow clap echoed.

"Aradhana," Yash breathed. "You shouldn't have come back. It's not safe."

"Nothing about this family ever was," she replied, her voice soft as a blade.

Then she pulled out a folder from her bag—yellowed, water-stained, tied with a red ribbon. "You're wrong, Rajveer. I'm not here to bury anyone. I'm here to exhume the truth." She tossed the folder onto the coffee table. Inside: photographs, bank statements, a torn page from a diary. And one photograph of their father, Raghuvir, shaking hands with a man everyone believed was dead.

And in that moment, the Aagmaal—the ultimate fire—truly began. Not with swords or screams. But with a daughter's whispered truth, a son's buried rage, and a family that was about to learn: ashes don't disappear. They wait for the wind.