The convoy rolled out of Surat at dawn, twenty luxury carts gliding over the half-paved road like swans on glass. Jai Vora's construction crews had laid smooth stone and compacted earth for the first half of the journey; rubber tires whispered instead of crunching. What once took forty-eight hours with night halts now shrank to a single, unbroken sprint. The oxen never slowed; the steel springs swallowed every jolt. Vikram Singh lounged beside Jai, boots propped on the rail, turban tilted against the sunrise.
"Twenty hours," Vikram grinned. "Your roads eat time for breakfast."
Jai's eyes stayed on the horizon. "Time is coin. We just minted a fortune."
They reached Ahmedabad as the moon climbed silver over the Sabarmati, the city's minarets glowing like spears of light. The carts rolled through gates already expecting them—Vikram Singh's household staff in crisp Vora kurtas, torches lining the drive. Shadow leapt down beside Jai, 400 kg of midnight muscle, and padded at his heel without a word. No servant dared approach the tiger; Jai's suite had been prepared with a wide teak platform and a bowl of fresh goat. Shadow curled there, amber eyes half-lidded, while Jai slept.
Morning light spilled through lattice windows. Jai stepped into the corridor, Shadow a silent shadow behind him, claws clicking softly on marble. He turned toward the scent of cardamom tea—and stopped.
A girl stood by an archway, no more than fifteen, dressed in a flowing Western nightgown of pale lavender silk. The fabric caught the dawn like water. Her hair fell in loose waves to her waist; her skin held the soft gold of early light. She saw Jai—and then Shadow. Her eyes widened; a sharp gasp escaped.
"OMG! What the hell is that?" she blurted in crisp English, hand flying to her throat.
Jai's palm settled on Shadow's massive head. "Easy," he murmured. The tiger stilled, ears flicking, but did not growl. The girl's breath steadied. Color returned to her cheeks. She pressed her palms together, bowed with perfect grace—eyes lowered, voice soft. "Good morning."
Jai answered without thinking, his voice slipping into the polished British accent of a past life—London boardrooms, New York docks, a well-established import-export empire. "Good morning. He's my pet. No need to fear—he's quite tame."
The girl's eyes flicked up, startled. She hadn't expected such fluent English, such a refined accent. She bowed again, deeper this time, and glided away on silent feet, lavender silk trailing like mist.
Jai continued to the breakfast terrace. Vikram Singh was already there, tearing into parathas and aloo sabzi.
"Sleep well, birthday king?"
"Like the dead," Jai said, and took his seat. Shadow settled behind his chair, a living throne. He did not ask about the girl.
After breakfast, Vikram led him through the city. They inspected the new Vora factory—packaging halls humming, glassblowers shaping crystal, bicycle frames cooling in racks. Jai signed the final ledger; the Ahmedabad seal was official. Vikram saved the best for last.
The mansion stood beside his own palace, three courtyards of white marble and jali screens, a fountain shaped like a peacock, stables already stocked with Marwari horses.
"Yours," Vikram said simply. "Happy birthday."
Jai walked the halls in silence, fingers tracing teak beams, already mapping offices, war-rooms, a rooftop for Shadow. Shadow padded at his side, tail flicking with approval.
"It's perfect," Jai said at last.
They returned for lunch. The dining hall opened onto a garden of jasmine. Vikram took his seat at the head—and there she was again. The same girl, now draped in a traditional saffron saree, gold border glinting, pallu arranged with modest elegance. She sat to Vikram's right, hands folded, eyes bright but lowered. The morning's nightgown might have been a dream; this was poise incarnate. Shadow lay behind Jai's chair, unmoving.
The girl lifted a silver bowl of dahi, served Vikram first, then Jai—her movements smooth, respectful, silent.