The stapler lay forgotten on the accountant's cluttered desk, chrome dulled by dust. Prasad Malhotra hadn't filed his own taxes in decades; minions handled such drudgery. His thick fingers drummed the mahogany dining table, impatient. Across the room, polished silverware reflected afternoon light onto silk wallpaper. He cared little for formality now. His gaze remained fixed on the apartment entryway. Waiting.

A key scraped the lock. The heavy oak door swung open. Light spilled over Pooja, silhouetting hips that swayed with practiced rhythm. Her neon pink crop top barely contained her chest, riding up as she kicked off cheap flip-flops. Denim shorts cut high on her thighs exposed deliberate tan lines. She giggled, tossing tangled hair over one shoulder. "Traffic was murder, Sirji!" Her voice was syrup over crushed glass.