Chapter 25

The quiet warmth of the master suite lay still under the gentle whir of the ceiling fan. Slanted bars of golden afternoon sunlight tracked slowly across the white cotton sheet, illuminating dust motes dancing in the humid air.

Bare feet met the cool floor tiles as his long frame rose from the mattress. Walking into the adjoining bathroom, the brass shower fixture turned with a sharp click, unleashing a heavy cascade of groundwater over his head and shoulders. Water runneled down his chest and back, washing away the salt, sweat, and residual oil from the afternoon.

Drying off with a coarse towel, he dressed back into his crisp navy blue cotton kurta-pyjama. Standing before the mirror, calloused hands unraveled his dark navy dastaar, tying the starched cotton fabric layer by layer over his joora, adjusting the front folds neat and sharp across his brow.

Stepping back into the bedroom, his eyes settled on the bed where Preet lay tucked under the thin sheet, her dark hair scattered over the pillow, her breathing slow and steady.

He leaned down over the mattress, pressing a warm kiss against her forehead.

“I am going to the Haveli, Preet. If any need arises then make a call.” (Main Haveli chalya aa, Preet. Koyi lod hove te phone kar lavi.)

A faint hum came from her lips, her eyes opening just enough to catch his smile before her head settled deeper into the cotton.

His fingers closed around his motorcycle keys and smartphone on the timber sideboard. Stepping through the shaded verandah, the heavy teak front door shut with a solid, echoing thud.

The dry heat of three o’clock hit his face as he walked to the wide neem tree. The black Royal Enfield Bullet 500 sat resting in the shade, its metallic frame warm to the touch. Swinging a long leg over the leather saddle, his boot drove the kick-starter down with practiced force. The engine fired instantly, a deep, rhythmic thrum vibrating through the handlebars and echoing off the brick boundary walls.

Engaging gear, he guided the motorcycle out through the open side gate onto the dirt track.

With the Bullet 500 coasting smoothly at a low speed along the green paddy borders, his right hand pulled his smartphone from his pocket. Tapping the glass screen with his thumb, he dialed Simran’s cellular number directly, holding the device to his ear above the thumping exhaust note.

The line rang twice, three times, four times, before cutting straight to an automated cellular voicemail beep. She was intentionally ignoring his call from Monaco, still nursing her temper from last night.