The room they had been ushered into was nothing short of a palace’s whispered secret, a slice of desi royalty plucked straight from a dream that had clearly been curated for Instagram-worthy admiration and cinematic inspiration. Warm golden light poured through intricate jaali patterns that carved delicate shadows onto the polished marble floor, and the scent of sandalwood and fresh flowers floated faintly in the air, wrapping the space in a comforting, almost intoxicating embrace. The ceiling was high, carved with motifs so detailed that it felt like an artist had spent a lifetime etching them with devotion, while the walls were adorned with paintings that spoke of old-world grandeur, of stories spun long before Kiara, Rupali, and Kriti had even dreamed of stepping into such a space. And then—the bed. Oh, the bed. It was massive, impossibly plush, and decorated with soft linens and cushions that looked as if they were plucked straight from the fantasies of queens past. Kiara’s eyes widened in unrestrained awe, the kind of awe that made her momentarily forget her usual sarcasm, her constant inner monologue, and even the very chaos that had carried them here.