The entire Sharma mansion gleams with celebration, every corner alive with light and laughter. Crystal chandeliers glow warmly above, marigold and rose garlands cascade down carved pillars, and fairy lights trace the arches like constellations brought to earth. The air is fragrant with incense and fresh flowers, mingling with music and the low hum tied together by joy. Silk drapes in ivory and gold sway gently, and the courtyard shimmers with reflections from brass lamps and polished marble floors. It feels like the house itself is smiling.

Amidst the crowd, Aviraj stands tall near the bar centre, a quiet stillness around him despite the noise. He’s dressed in a white coat-kurta set, crisp and understated—elegant without trying. His posture is composed, eyes thoughtful, as if he’s present and elsewhere all at once.