The night was alive with the distant sounds of Rio—laughter, music, the hum of an empire that never slept. But inside Diya's private estate, there was only silence, thick with anticipation. She sat on the edge of her desk, swirling a glass of bourbon, eyes glowing under the dim chandelier light. Mihir stood beside her, arms crossed, waiting for her next move.
"He's lost his mind," Mihir stated, tapping a report on the table. "Mathore is burning the streets trying to find you. He's too mad to think straight."
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