The dining hall of Rathore Haveli had been designed for intimidation. Thirty foot ceilings, crystal chandeliers dripping like frozen blood, a long teak table that could seat forty but tonight held only two. Candles flickered in silver holders, casting long shadows across marble floors veined with gold. The air smelled of sandalwood incense, roasted spices, and the faint metallic tang of old money.

Vikram sat at the head, back straight, hands folded on the table like a man presiding over judgment. He had changed into a deep navy kurta, raw silk, understated power. No jewelry except the heavy gold signet ring on his right hand, the Rathore crest etched deep. He poured himself a single measure of scotch from the decanter. Waited.