I should've known we'd get two arrivals — one with fireworks, one with fog.
Rhea's fiancé, Rajveer Singh — yes, the Rajveer Singh, CEO of MAH Investment Bank, exquisitely charming, tall, dark, and handsome, the definition of a "typical Indian guy" in a bridal dream sequence — arrived like a film premiere. The entire family turned out to greet him at the gate with flower garlands, speeches, dhol players, and a drone camera floating over the chaos like a nosy relative.
He had that open smile, a perfectly crisp sherwani, and two affectionate parents in tow. The kind of man who would tick every box on Dadaji's list of acceptable grooms. He touched feet, kissed foreheads, teased Amisha within thirty seconds of meeting her, and complimented Dadaji's salt intake control like he was brokering a peace treaty.
"Rhea did well," I whispered to Amisha as we stood in the chaos, both holding welcome thalis so full they could double as cardio.
Amisha tilted her head. "He's sweet."
"He's a unicorn."
"He's also off the market."
"Pity."
Just when I thought I could fake a work emergency and escape with dignity, Rhea descended like the manic bridal hurricane she was becoming.
"You're picking up Leo," she announced.
"What?" Amisha and I said in stereo.
"His childhood friend," she clarified. "Their jet lands at the private terminal in thirty minutes. I can't go — Rajveer's parents want alone time. Dad's battling the florist. Go. Now. Smile. Don't traumatize them."
"Why me?" I asked.
"Because you're terrifyingly competent. And I can't trust Amisha alone with anyone remotely hot."
"Hey!" Amisha said, mock-offended.
Rhea just blew us kisses and vanished into the crowd like a chaos goblin in chiffon.
Ten minutes later, Amisha and I were crawling up a gravel road in a matte black SUV toward a private airstrip carved into the mountainside. It looked like a Bond set — cold steel, pine forests, dramatic sky, and that rare kind of wealth that didn't like to be recognized.
I adjusted my sunglasses. "What do we know about this Leo Wu?"
Amisha shrugged. "Shanghai side. Tech billionaire. Private. No social media. Possibly allergic to sunlight."
I exhaled. "Perfect. One of those."
"Maybe he's hot."
"Maybe he's emotionally repressed."
Amisha grinned. "So... your type."
I opened my mouth to reply, but the jet appeared on the horizon — sleek, silver-grey, utterly silent — slicing across the sky like a knife forged out of restraint.
It landed without fuss. No entourage. No fanfare. Just one assistant stepping down... and then two figures emerged.