The mansion was adorned in elegance, the very air laced with the scent of fresh flowers and the quiet hum of staff moving swiftly to ensure perfection. Drishti had left no stone unturned in preparing for this day. She had observed, learned, and adapted.
Now, as she stood among the Singhanias, waiting for the arrival of the man who could change her fate, she steeled herself. This was no longer just about making a good impression—it was about securing her future.
This time, she would not fail.
The morning sun cast a golden glow over the Singhania mansion, illuminating its grand architecture with a festive vibrancy. The estate was alive with preparations for Holi, the festival of colors. Laughter echoed through the courtyards as servants bustled about, setting up tables, arranging fresh flower garlands, and preparing trays of powdered colors in vivid hues of pink, blue, and yellow. The air was thick with the rich aroma of sweets and festive delicacies, signaling the beginning of an unforgettable day.
Just as the final touches were being made, a luxurious black car rolled to a halt in front of the grand entrance. The vehicle, sleek and imposing, bore the unmistakable mark of wealth and status. As soon as it stopped, a group of uniformed attendants moved swiftly to open the door. An elderly man, exuding authority and wisdom, was assisted out of the car. His every movement, though slow, commanded respect. He leaned slightly on a walking stick with an intricately designed golden handle, a testament to his refined taste. Clad in an exquisitely tailored suit—one that could only be handcrafted by the finest artisans—he was the very embodiment of old-world aristocracy.
Mihir Singhania, standing at the threshold, immediately stepped forward to support the old man. "Dadaji, let me help you," he said, his voice filled with respect.
But the elder barely spared him a glance. His personal attendants flanked him, ensuring that he did not require assistance from anyone else. Mihir's hands, stretched out in goodwill, hung in the air awkwardly before he slowly withdrew them.
Drishti, standing a few steps away, watched the scene unfold with keen interest. She had been eager to assist, but upon witnessing Mihir's rejection, she quickly masked her emotions, keeping her expressions composed. Stepping forward with a warm smile, she said, "Grandfather, you must be exhausted from the journey. Let's head inside and let you rest for a while."
The old man chuckled, his sharp eyes twinkling with mischief. "Drishti, my dear, do not make me sound so ancient. I am not so old that I need to be locked away inside while festivities bloom around me. Look at this celebration—so full of life! The laughter, the music, the vibrant colors—it all ignites a fire within one's soul.