The afternoon sun poured liquid gold through the lobby’s tall windows, turning every marble surface into a mirror that threatened to betray them. Devraj stepped out of his car first, sunglasses firmly in place, jaw set like a man late for a meaningless meeting, and he did not once glance toward the white Audi that had parked three slots away.

Mishti emerged from it. She walked toward the revolving doors as though the man ten steps ahead was no one she had ever cried for in the dark. Their eyes never met, not even in the reflection of the glass, not in the polished brass of the elevator panels, not even when fate or excellent timing forced them into the same lift. They stood side by side like perfect strangers, Devraj staring at the climbing floor numbers, Mishti studying her phone with the concentration of someone reading terrible news. Only the frantic flutter of her pulse in her throat and the way his fingers tightened around his phone gave them away. He had already booked room 2308, because some habits are sacred, and the message he sent her was only four words: