Mumbai, a humid August night. The Sharma and Singh families had gathered in the lavish sea-facing apartment in Bandra. Balloons hung lazily from the ceiling, a chocolate cake sat untouched on the marble counter, and laughter filled the air — all for Priya’s 16th birthday.

But Simran, in her short, barely-there dress, wasn’t thinking about cake. She was leaning against the balcony rail, the salty wind teasing her long hair, her eyes not on the sea — but on Abhay Sharma, standing inside the living room, glass of whiskey in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show his chest hair, laughter deep and commanding.