Yahvi stood quietly in the corner of the ballroom, the stem of her glass cool between her fingers as she sipped the orange juice Vedansh had pressed into her hand earlier. Across the hall, she could see him with his father, engaged in deep conversation with a cluster of elderly men—men who, from their confident laughter and easy familiarity, she guessed had been Anant Singhania’s father’s contemporaries.

She smiled faintly to herself, observing the way Vedansh’s composure never slipped...even when surrounded by people who measured him by bloodline first and achievements second.