The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of the glass tower that dominated the southern skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the sprawling city below like a living map of lights and movement. Inside, everything was cold marble, dark wood, and silence broken only by the low hum of the climate system. Aradhna stood near the entrance, her party-issued black silk saree still perfectly draped, the matching blouse cut just low enough to satisfy the unspoken expectations of the evening. She had been briefed only once: be polite, be grateful, and do whatever keeps the donation pipeline open.

Vikram Malhotra did not rise when the private elevator doors opened. He remained seated in a wide leather chair facing the windows, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in one hand. He was in his early fifties, silver threading through black hair, the kind of face that looked carved rather than aged. His shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled once. He watched her reflection in the glass for several long seconds before speaking.