The nocturnal quiet of the guest suite was suffocating, broken only by the sharp clink of ice cubes against crystal as Ishanth poured another finger of amber scotch into his tumbler. Outside, the sprawling acreage of the Rathore estate lay shrouded in oppressive shadows, but inside the bedroom, the air was thick with a volatile, claustrophobic tension.

Ishanth sat sprawled in an oversized leather armchair, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and old scars from syndicate turf wars. A few paces away, Anika sat perched on the edge of the plush sofa. She wasn't reading, she wasn't scrolling through a phone—she was entirely inactive, paralyzed by the psychological gravity of her husband's presence. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her fingers rubbing nervously against one another in a rapid, repetitive motion that betrayed the frantic panic humming beneath her meek exterior.