"Turn up the AC, yaar—I’m sweating like a damn goat in this lehenga," Sara muttered, fanning herself with a diamond-studded clutch. Her best friend, Priya, rolled her eyes and tossed an ice cube from her cocktail down the back of Sara’s blouse. Sara yelped, swatting at her. "Psycho! You’re paying my dry-cleaning bill."

The grand ballroom of the Malhotra Mansion shimmered under golden chandeliers, packed with Mumbai’s elite. Waiters in crisp black uniforms slid between clusters of politicians and Bollywood stars, trays loaded with champagne and kebabs. The air smelled like expensive perfume and the faint metallic bite of rain slipping in from the terrace.

"Arre, Sara—stop fussing like some NRI aunty," Priya laughed, tugging the heavy lehenga skirt back into place after Sara’s dramatic flailing. "Your groom’s family is watching. Act like you want to marry the boring chartered accountant."

Sara shot her a glare sharp enough to slice through the humid Mumbai air. "Bhaiyya’s business partner’s son, not groom. Engagement first, then ten thousand functions where I have to smile like a mannequin." She flicked a stray curl off her forehead, the gold bangles on her wrist clinking like impatient wind chimes. "Fifty-fifty chance I push him into the pool by dessert."

Priya opened her mouth to retort when the lights flickered—once, twice—then died. The ballroom plunged into darkness. A woman shrieked somewhere near the champagne tower. "Bloody generator—" Sara started, but then the sound. A gunshot, crisp and brutal, cracking through the chatter like a slap.

Silence.

Then chaos.