He let the sting pass, his gaze shifting to the man standing at attention in the center of the hall. "Begin preparations for the final condition," he said. "One year from today, to the day—his wedding."
"Very well, sir." A slight bow, a whisper of polished soles on marble, and the man turned away, his figure shrinking into the corridor's cool light until the door sighed shut behind him.
Only then did the husband and wife look at one another. In the space the departure left, their faces loosened, helplessness rising like a tide they had no name for. "In the end," she murmured, the words barely crossing the distance between them, "it is our own son we're doing this to." A pause, long enough for doubt to find a chair. "What if—because of this—he grows to hate us?"
The chandelier hummed softly overhead. Somewhere beyond the doors, the house shifted—staff moving like distant currents—while within the hall the air grew heavier, as if the decree itself had weight. He exhaled, slow, measured. Neither of them answered the question. The silence did it for them
"There's no point circling this," he said, the words flat as stone. "We don't have another choice." His chin dipped, the kind of small surrender that echoes in a big room.
Cut to the Delhi–Mumbai highway: a red Ferrari 812 streaking like a lipstick slash across the tarmac at 120, the engine purring like it knows exactly who it is. Inside, two girls and a playlist on a mission. At the wheel—Amaya Bansal, sunglasses on, confidence louder than the bass. Riding shotgun—Anjali Malhotra, best friend, chaos consultant, certified vibe check. Final-year B.Tech, premier Mumbai college, GPA in one hand and the weekend in the other.
Amaya was campus folklore with a timetable: the kind of pretty that made people walk into doors. Five-seven, curls gone golden-blonde on a dare, the light catching them like a brand endorsement. Face like a porcelain doll who definitely knows she's not supposed to be this expensive. Heads turned, whispers ricocheted, and she kept driving.