The four days since Neel's capitulation had passed in a blur of relentless, opulent preparation. The Rathore mansion, usually a temple of minimalist calm, had been transformed into a war room for a wedding. The air hummed with a frantic energy that was entirely foreign to him.

His mother, Anita, was a whirlwind of decisive action. Where there had been hesitation, there was now only unwavering certainty. Designers, jewellers, and florists became permanent fixtures in the house. Neel had been dragged to a dizzying array of shops, where Nyra's constant, high-pitched chatter about fabrics, designs, and guest lists had grated on his last nerve.