The Khanna family residence in Golf Course Road was everything Karan had expected from a man like Vikram: sprawling marble floors, crystal chandeliers, a dining table long enough to seat twelve comfortably, and staff moving like silent shadows. The air smelled of cardamom, saffron, and expensive whiskey. At 7:55 p.m., Karan arrived in a crisp navy suit—tie replaced with a fresh black one, no stains this time. He carried a bottle of single malt as a peace offering.

Vikram greeted him at the door—warm handshake, firm grip, eyes that lingered a second too long. “Karan. Good to see you. Come in. Saanvi’s helping in the kitchen.”