Late afternoon bled into evening, the sky over Delhi turning a bruised shade of orange as Virat stepped out of the party office, shoulders tense from hours of meetings and strategy sessions. He was already thinking of home—of Ishani, of the quiet dinner they might share, of the slow, simmering tension between them that had become both torment and temptation.

Ajay Sinha was waiting near the exit, leaning casually against the wall, a smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes.