The stale air of the penthouse apartment, thick with the scent of aged leather and something vaguely metallic, pressed down on Sameer. He stood, a statue carved from apprehension, in the center of a vast, polished floor. The city lights, a glittering tapestry beyond the panoramic windows, seemed too distant, too indifferent to the tremor in his hands. Vardaan Shekhawat, a figure of imposing stillness, watched him from a high-backed armchair. Vardaan’s presence filled the room, a silent, potent force. The tailored silk of his shirt stretched taut across broad shoulders, and his dark eyes, pools of impenetrable depth, held Sameer captive.