Upstairs, the suite was a masterpiece of velvet, marble, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city’s shimmering skyline. Pallavi kicked off her heels and let her feet sink into the plush Persian rug. For years, she had been the one drafting the blueprints for other people's dreams. Tonight, she was living in one.

Zara lunged. She was trained, fast—but she was barefoot on marble. Pallavi, who had grown up playing kho-kho on the mud fields of Satara, sidestepped and swept her leg. Zara crashed into the grand piano, sending a discordant clang through the suite.

Colonel Mehta had stepped out onto the balcony for a cigar. The woman—a former intelligence analyst named Zara—was in the bathroom, her voice muffled.

Amateur, she thought. Overkill always left traces.