Evening had begun to drape the mountains in gold by the time they returned to the room. The pheras were done, lunch served, guests scattered across the property. The corridor lights flickered behind them, but inside, the only illumination came from slanted beams slipping through half-drawn curtains. The room smelled faintly of crushed garlands, sandalwood soap, and something darker, musk, sweat, sex.

Vikram entered first, lazy in his gait, jacket slung casually over two fingers. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. His walk alone said it: I own what just happened. I'll own what comes next.