The morning arrived in Udaipur like a gentle promise, delicate and unhurried. Sunlight filtered lazily through the ornate windows of their room, spilling across the polished floors and gilded furniture, painting the room in soft golden hues. Birds outside the palace walls sang with a cheerful insistence, their calls weaving through the open windows like tiny heralds of the day, filling the air with a sense of tranquil optimism that contrasted sharply with the chaos unfolding inside.

On the bed closest to the window, Kriti was nowhere to be found, most likely still ensconced in the washroom, conducting what seemed to be a ritualistic cleansing of every drop of water the palace could spare. Her absence lent the room a strange imbalance, an empty space that Kiara instinctively knew Kriti’s presence would have anchored. And then there was Rupali—calm, poised, and unnervingly focused. She sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop perched carefully on her knees, fingers dancing across the keyboard as if she were performing a delicate symphony of financial sorcery. The faint click-clack of the keys punctuated the otherwise silent room, adding a rhythm that contrasted sharply with the sleeping giant sprawled beside her.