As Diwali's golden hues crept closer, the penthouse transformed into a haze of spice and anticipation, the air thick with the sizzle of ghee and the sweet tang of jaggery. Mumbai's skyline twinkled like a thousand diyas in the distance, but within Virat's fortress, the real fire brewed in stolen glances and simmering touches. Ishani, 23 and radiant in a simple bodycon dress that hugged her curves like a whispered secret, fluttered about the kitchen with Julia Aunty—the silver-haired househelp who'd been Virat's shadow for two decades, her loyalty forged in the fires of his mafia rise. Julia's hands, gnarled yet deft, shaped laddoos into perfect spheres, while Ishani kneaded dough for chaklis, her laughter light and innocent, hips swaying to an unheard rhythm that made the silk of her dupatta slip teasingly over her shoulder.