The glass-and-steel monolith of the Mehra-Rathore Heights pierced the Mumbai skyline like a jagged shard of arrogance. It was a monument to the stolen, a palace built on the bones of a family's trust. At its summit lay the penthouse—a sprawling, minimalist sanctuary of white marble, Italian leather, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of a city Gayatri Rathore believed she finally owned.

Gayatri sat by the fireplace, a glass of vintage Cristal in her hand, the amber light of the flames dancing in her eyes. She was celebrating. The final merger papers had been filed, the Rathore name was a punchline in the financial papers, and the "Diamond" was presumably rotting in the slums or swept away by the monsoon. She felt light, untethered by the pesky weight of a conscience.