The luxurious Mercedes glided into the sprawling driveway of Aarav Singh's opulent Mumbai mansion, the engine humming to a soft stop under the portico lights. The clock on the dashboard read just past 2 AM, the night air cool against the tinted windows. Aarav sat in the back, his arm still loosely around Aarti's waist, her head lolling against his shoulder in a drunken stupor. Natasha remained passed out on the opposite seat, her chest rising and falling in deep, oblivious sleep. The partition lowered slightly as the chauffeur glanced back, his face impassive.

Aarav nodded curtly. 'Natasha ko uske kamre mein le jao. Dhyaan se,' he instructed in a low voice. The chauffeur emerged, opening the door with practiced efficiency. Two servants from the house—discreet, well-trained staff who knew better than to question their employer's late-night arrivals—hurried out from the shadows, their uniforms crisp even at this hour. They carefully lifted Natasha, one supporting her under the arms, the other at her legs, carrying her limp form through the grand entrance like a sleeping princess.