The lace is a cage of ivory and gold, scratching against Priya’s collarbone with every shallow breath. In the flickering candlelight of the Mehra Estate’s master suite, the air smells of expensive bergamot and the sharp, metallic tang of cold marble. She stands perfectly still, her sleek dark hair pinned tight, the weight of the veil obscuring a face that was never meant to be here. Her sister, Anjali, would have worn this silence like a crown; Priya wears it like a shroud.
On the mahogany vanity, a silver inkwell sits untouched, its polished surface reflecting the trembling flame of a nearby candle. Priya’s fingers twitch toward the hidden compartment she knows is carved into its base—a secret she mapped years ago while balancing her father’s crumbling ledgers—but the heavy thud of a boot on the threshold freezes her. Vikram Anand’s signet ring had flashed in the hallway as he shoved her toward this room, a desperate man’s final gamble. Now, the debt has come to collect.
The door clicks shut, the sound final as a gavel. Darian Mehra moves with the lethal, unhurried grace of a predator who has already won. He stops inches away, his shadow stretching long across the silk of her skirts, his pale grey eyes tracing the silhouette of the woman he thinks he bought.
Darian’s hand reaches out, fingers catching the edge of the heavy silk veil.
