The rooftop terrace of the Bandra bungalow was a private oasis by design—high walls draped in jasmine creepers, a small infinity-edge pool reflecting the city lights, teak loungers arranged in a loose circle around a low fire pit. Tonight the fire pit blazed low, casting flickering orange across naked skin. The walls were low enough that anyone on neighbouring rooftops, or even from the upper floors of the sea-facing apartments across the lane, could look straight in if they chose to. No curtains. No privacy screens. Just the open Mumbai night sky, heavy with stars and the distant thump of monsoon clouds gathering far out at sea.

Priya had turned on every light: string lights looped through the creepers, underwater pool LEDs glowing electric blue, solar lanterns along the perimeter. The terrace was lit like a stage.