Kiara had worn a path across the floor, pacing back and forth like a caged tigress. Her thumbnail hovered at her lips—not bitten, just pressed there for dramatic effect, as if she were starring in the climax of a Bollywood thriller. Every turn she made was sharp, every sigh exaggerated, every glare at the four walls laced with despair.

Across the room, Ruaan reclined in a chair as if he had all the time in the world. His arms draped lazily over the sides, his head tilted, his gaze fixed on her with a quiet amusement. He wasn’t even pretending to hide it anymore—every exaggerated step, every huff, every roll of her eyes seemed to entertain him far more than the idea of finding a way out.