The Chief Minister leaned back against the heavy wooden headboard of the guest house bedroom, the soft glow of the single bedside lamp casting long shadows across the cream-colored walls. Outside the thick curtains the night was quiet, the distant hum of the capital city muffled by the private compound’s high walls. Aradhya stood near the foot of the bed, her hands clasped in front of her, the silk of her pale blue saree still perfectly draped from the evening’s public function. She had been told this meeting was about the ticket. She had expected files, names, perhaps a quiet conversation over tea. Instead the door had locked behind her with a soft click, and the Chief Minister had already set his phone on the dresser, the red recording light glowing steadily.

“Come closer,” he said, his voice low and even. “And remove the pallu. Slowly.”