The interior of the cab was a pressure cooker of humidity and unspoken tension. Outside, the Mumbai rain lashed against the windows, blurring the streetlights into smears of neon, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet asphalt and the heavy, expensive jasmine perfume clinging to Ananya’s skin.

Zaid sat behind the wheel, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his thin cotton shirt. He was a man built of hard angles and discipline—the sharp line of his jaw and the glimpse of his defined six-pack rippling under his shirt whenever he shifted gears spoke of a strength he usually kept under tight control. He glanced at the rearview mirror, his dark eyes locking onto the woman in the back seat.