The Taj Mahal Palace rose against the Mumbai skyline like a wedding cake of white marble and domes, its hundred year old facade glowing rose gold in the late afternoon sun. Priya had visited the hotel only once before, as a child, dragged to a charity gala by parents who wanted to display their daughter like one of the Surya mannequins. She remembered chandeliers and exhaustion, the scratch of silk against her skin, the hollow smiles of socialites who had long since decided the Singhs were nouveau riche pretenders. She had never returned. The hotel had always felt like a monument to everything her family had failed to be.
Today, she walked through the colonnaded entrance with her head high and the ruby choker warm at her throat, and the hotel felt different. It felt like a beginning.
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