The studio penthouse smelled of expensive cologne, cold air conditioning, and the faint ozone of running electronics. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows the city lights of the capital glittered like a cheap necklace, but inside everything was soft lighting and dark leather and the low hum of servers. Aradhya stood near the long editing table that dominated the centre of the room, her campaign sari still perfectly draped, the pale green silk clinging to her hips. She had come alone, as instructed. No security. No aides. Just the silent understanding that one night here would buy her the kind of television coverage money could never guarantee.

Vikram Mehra, owner of the largest private news network in the country, watched her from the far end of the table. He was in his late forties, thick through the shoulders, silver at the temples, eyes that never quite smiled even when his mouth did. He held a remote in one hand. With a lazy flick the wall of monitors came alive. Campaign ads began to play on every screen—Aradhya smiling, Aradhya speaking about progress, Aradhya promising clean governance—looping in silent, glossy repetition.