The evening sun had just begun to dip behind the Aravalli hills, scattering golden embers across the sky like whispers of a setting fire. The breeze had cooled, swirling delicately through the resort gardens, brushing over marigold garlands and rustling the lehengas hanging out to dry. It was a calm hour, almost sacred, a stolen pause before the chaos of the upcoming sangeet swallowed the night whole.

And amidst this quietude, Ayaan had managed what many deemed impossible: sneaking into Kriti's cottage without anyone noticing—except Radithya, who had been bribed with a promise of mango popsicles to provide cover.