Vickey Malhotra left the villa long before the last jazz note faded.
The humiliation sat in his throat like broken glass. Mr. Singh's cold dismissal replayed on a loop: the slow sip, the disgusted once-over, the turned back. In the back seat of his Audi, city lights streaking past, Vickey's fists clenched until his knuckles went white.
If Singh won't listen to me, Dad will make him listen.
Manohar Malhotra had missed the party—migraine, the doctors said—but he still carried weight with the older generation. Vickey stormed into the Malhotra bungalow at midnight, found his father in the study nursing a single malt under dim light.
Vickey spilled everything in one furious breath: the slaps weeks ago, the failed attempt to hire muscle, tonight's circle of power around Ishaan, Mr. Singh's insult.
Manohar listened without interrupting, eyes half-closed. When Vickey finished, the older man set his glass down with deliberate care.
Manohar: "Tomorrow morning I'll call Singh for coffee. Old friends clear the air."
Vickey exhaled, triumph flickering.
Manohar (quietly): "And you will stay home. Touch this again and you'll wish Ishaan had only slapped you."
The triumph died. Vickey opened his mouth, closed it, and left the room without another word.
Back at the villa, the party flowed on undisturbed.
Ishaan kept to the edges—mocktail in hand, answers short, smile polite. He had no interest in the spotlight, but the spotlight refused to leave him.
Simi dragged him from group to group. Basu Bhai's booming laugh drew more eyes. Mr. Singh introduced him as "the man who saved my life" to anyone who would listen. Mr. Chadda clapped his shoulder whenever their paths crossed. Raheja of TOABH slipped two more business cards into Ishaan's pocket "just in case."
Curiosity rippled outward like rings in the pool.
A cluster of diamond-merchant wives near the dessert table whispered behind champagne flutes.
"Who is he?"
"Son-in-law of the Bajaj family, apparently."
"Bajaj? The construction Bajajs? Decent money, but hardly our circle."
"Then why is Singh treating him like royalty? And Basu Bhai? Chadda? Raheja?"
"Must be some new money angle we haven't heard about."
A hedge-fund manager cornered a real-estate tycoon by the bar.
"Tell me about the tall one in the cream coat."
"Bajaj surname on the wife's side, Ahuja on his. Neither name moves the needle. Mid-tier at best."
"Then explain the guest list orbiting him."
The tycoon shrugged. "Some people collect influence the way others collect watches. Tonight he's wearing the rarest one."
Ishaan heard none of it. He answered questions with quiet nods, deflected praise, and checked the time on the green Seiko only when no one was watching.
At eleven-thirty the band played its final slow song. Guests began drifting toward the valet stand. Ishaan made his rounds.
To Mr. Chadda: a respectful fold of hands and a soft "Good night, sir. Thank you again."
To Raheja: a firm handshake and "I'll call next week."
To Mr. Singh: a warm hug and "Happy birthday once more."
Simi tried to cling to his arm; he gently disentangled with a small smile.
Neha slipped him her private contact "for emergencies only."
Basu Bhai pulled him into a one-armed embrace that nearly lifted him off the ground.
Basu Bhai (low): "Drive safe, Tiger. Call if anyone breathes wrong."
Ishaan walked alone to the far end of the driveway. The Bullet waited under a palm, humble among the gleaming imports. He swung on, started the engine with a low growl that barely disturbed the night, and rode out through the gates.
Behind him, the villa lights dimmed one by one. Ahead, the empty road stretched home—quiet, unnoticed, exactly how he preferred it.