As soon as they reached the venue, Rida’s eyes flicked around, taking in the lavish chandeliers dripping with gold light, the hum of music blending with the murmur of voices, waiters gliding past with crystal flutes, and the air heavy with perfume and power. The world seemed to shimmer, yet all she could feel was the warmth of Prakhar’s hand brushing against her back, steadying, claiming, guiding—too natural for two people who weren’t supposed to be natural.

Before they could move further, a man appeared in front of them. Mid-fifties, sharp in a tailored suit, carrying the air of someone who knew how to command a room. He clasped Prakhar’s hand firmly.