The conference room smelled of polished wood, stale cigarette smoke, and the sharp tang of power. Outside the thick double doors the party headquarters roared with celebration—drums, slogans, the wet slap of hands on backs, the clink of cheap whiskey glasses. Inside, the long mahogany table stretched under harsh fluorescent lights like a battlefield waiting for bodies. Aradhna stood near the head of it, still in the white cotton saree she had worn for the victory speeches, the thin fabric already damp under the arms from the heat of the crowd and the cameras. Her hair had come loose from its careful bun. A smear of vermilion from someone’s forehead mark stained the edge of her blouse.

The state president, Sharmaji, locked the door with a soft click that somehow cut through the muffled noise outside. Six senior leaders arranged themselves along the sides of the table—three on each side—like men who already knew the order of things. Sharmaji took the chair at the far end and gestured for her to come closer.