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Ikshita's POV
The moment I stepped into Mr. Mehrotra's mansion, a butler appeared out of nowhere - crisp uniform, emotionless face, like he'd been trained to breathe only on command.
"Hukum has asked for you. On his floor," he said, bowing slightly.
Of course, he has.
I gave a short nod, masking the sigh that almost escaped. "Tell your Hukum I'm not a magician - I'll appear when I reach," I muttered under my breath, heels clicking against the marble as I walked in.
Great. Just what I needed.
It had already taken me ages to get back here. Aaliya had decided to test the limits of her alcohol tolerance - spoiler alert, it didn't end well. Half the ride back was spent with the car pulled over, me holding her hair while she threw up and swore she could "totally handle her shots."
By the time we finally reached, my head was pounding and my patience was officially done for the day. I exhaled sharply, fixing my hair, straightening my coat, and muttering to myself, "Perfect. Let's go face the royal ego now."
I was exhausted, but apparently the night hadn't gotten the memo.
I scanned the hall like someone doing a quick threat assessment and started up the stairs - slow, deliberate, heels barely whispering on the marble. My fingers kept checking my dress, an automatic ritual: inhaler in the inner pocket, a compact folded knife disguised as a makeup tool, a couple of safety pins sharpened into makeshift picks. Nothing flashy - just practical things that say don't mess with me.
Call it paranoia or common sense, but I like being prepared. This wasn't a casual visit; it was me walking into a lion's den. God only knew when the claws would come out, so I made sure there was something on me for every kind of emergency.
If they wanted drama, fine - they'd get it. But they wouldn't catch me unarmed, unready, or unblinking
I glanced at the butler stationed on his floor - stiff posture, expression blank, the perfect definition of overpaid obedience. He gestured for me to follow, and I did, not because I wanted to, but because apparently my life had turned into a series of "let's-see-what-happens-next" episodes.
He knocked on the door, a precise double tap, and a deep voice from inside said, "Come in." Permission granted - how royal.
As I stepped in, my eyes immediately caught him - sprawled casually across a massive couch like he owned not just the room, but gravity itself.
And that couch. God, that couch. It wasn't furniture; it was a statement - a dangerously extravagant one. The outer frame was lined with metallic spikes, polished enough to gleam under the chandelier. A massive lion's face was carved into the backrest, its mane detailed with unnerving precision, and coiled around it was a snake, fangs bared, tongue out, as if the two beasts were mid-attack together.
