Aanya stood beneath the crystal chandelier in the Imperial’s grand foyer, its light fracturing into prisms across her lehenga. Every facet sparkled like a promise she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep. She checked her reflection in a gilt-framed mirror: heart racing, pulse echoing, breath caught somewhere between panic and anticipation.

The party was a blur of silk and cologne. Devika Rana greeted dignitaries three texts ahead of her RSVP. Rhea Mehra monitored the room as if it were a board meeting, her smile precise. Saira hovered at her elbow, offering moral support in the form of sugar-spun macarons and whispered pep talks.