The view from Vivek and Ananya’s Manhattan penthouse was usually the highlight of Arya’s trips to New York. The city was a glittering tapestry of gold and neon, vibrating with an energy that made everything feel possible. But tonight, as she stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass in the dining room, the lights felt like cold, distant stars—beautiful to look at, but impossible to touch.

She was wearing a deep emerald green silk dress. Her hair was pinned back with the silver clip. She looked like the perfect vision of a birthday girl, ready for a high-profile dinner.