Three weeks before the wedding, Priya sat cross legged on a silk cushion in the Singh mansion's crumbling ballroom while a mehendi artist painted intricate henna patterns down her arms. The room smelled of eucalyptus oil and decaying grandeur. Outside, workers had been hired by Reyansh Kapoor to trim the overgrown hedges and refill the fountains, but inside the walls still wept with damp and memory. Her mother supervised the artist with hollow eyes, offering suggestions about peacock motifs and hidden initials that felt like mockery. There was no joy in this ritual. Only the slow, meticulous decoration of a sacrifice.

"Your hands are cold, beti," the mehendi artist murmured, her brush pausing. "Are you nervous? All brides are nervous."