The two of them stood exposed: not a king and queen, but two actors in a ruined play.
Bunty looked at her—the ice, the intellect, the absolute lack of remorse. He had met devils in prison. He had never met one in a bindi .
“The money doesn’t matter now,” Bunty said, his voice tired. “I have a third bullet left. One of you dies tonight. Decide.”
The next day, the fort prepared for a celebration. Bhanu arrived with English wines and a new wife. Dilip smiled. Madhavi smiled. Bunty loaded his pistol in the servant’s bathroom.
Madhavi and Dilip watched from the window. For the first time in years, they held hands—not out of love, but out of the terrible recognition that they were the same: hollow, ruthless, and utterly alone.