The train hissed into Udaipur beneath a sky bruised by monsoon clouds. The air was thick, wet, and smelled of old stone and jasmine. From the moment Riaan stepped onto the platform, he felt the city watching him.
Twenty-six. A traveler. A photographer. A man running toward something — or maybe away.
The letter had been precise. A private photography commission inside the Haveli of Devika Rana — the late minister's widow. Wealthy, cultured, untouchable. The kind of woman you read about in headlines, never meet in candlelight.
By the time his auto-rickshaw turned into the old city, the rain had begun — a slow, seductive drizzle that clung to his shirt and soaked into his bones.
The Haveli rose like a forgotten temple. Sandstone walls wrapped in ivy, latticed balconies peeking over the street like masked eyes. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a secret.
A servant opened the carved teak doors without a word.
And then she appeared.
Devika Rana.
Saree the color of spilled wine. A diamond glinting from her nose. Thick black kajal lining eyes that had seen too much — and forgotten none of it.
"You're younger than I expected," she said, voice warm as velvet but edged like glass.
Riaan let the rain drip down his jaw as he met her gaze. "You're more dangerous than I hoped."
She didn't laugh. She didn't have to.
She turned, her hips swaying with power, and he followed her into a corridor perfumed with sandalwood and stories. Every wall held ancient paintings. Every corner whispered something unspoken.
Footsteps echoed from above.
"Aunty, is the photographer here?"
The voice was lighter, untrained, curious.
Meher.
Twenty-two. Barefoot. Wearing a soft cotton kurti, her dupatta carelessly hanging from one shoulder. Her anklets chimed with each step down the marble staircase.
Her eyes caught Riaan like a sudden gust of wind.
He froze.
So did she.
The kind of silence that makes time pulse harder.
Devika stepped between them with a small, dangerous smile. "She's just a girl," she said, voice low, close to his ear. "Don't look at her like that."
"I didn't mean to."
"But you did."
She studied him — not with suspicion, but with ownership.
"In this house," she whispered, brushing past him, "even desire has a price."
The lights flickered as thunder cracked outside.
And the door behind them closed with a sound that felt like fate.