The iron gates of the estate, hidden deep in the foggy chills of Mussoorie, groaned open like the jaws of a silent beast. Suhana sat in the back of the black sedan, her fingers digging into her Chanel clutch. Her husband, a cold business tycoon, had sent her here with a single sentence: "Tumhe aurat banna nahi aata, Suhana. Wahan jao aur seekh kar aao ki mard ko kaise sambhala jata hai."
The Academy was a brutalist concrete structure—cold, grey, and imposing. Inside, the floors were white marble, polished to a mirror shine. There were no decorations, only cameras in every corner.
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