The Anwar mansion was a monument to wealth and tradition, its white pillars glowing faintly in the late afternoon sun. From the outside, it looked serene, perfectly maintained gardens, manicured hedges, and the glint of polished marble floors within. But inside, the house was anything but peaceful. Every corner, every hallway, seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Waiting for the inevitable clash of ambition, envy, and unresolved resentment.
Lady Anwar, matriarch of the household, sat rigidly in the sunroom, her hands clasped around a delicate porcelain teacup she hadn't touched in hours. Her dark gown contrasted sharply with the sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows, illuminating the severity etched into her sharp features. Every line of her posture screamed control, control over herself, her daughters, and the chaos that lurked at the edges of their carefully curated lives.
