Fifteen minutes later, near the reception, Rohit was still cleaning up the mess.
A few crumpled five-hundred rupee notes changed hands with the staff, along with a quiet assurance that tonight's little scene wouldn't travel any further than this lobby.
Robin appeared at his elbow, voice dropped low, pressing a small unlabeled flask into his hand. "Sir. Take this."
Rohit turned the bottle over. The crude sticker simply read Quality Rum in bold, almost mocking letters.
"What the hell is this supposed to be?"
"Desi liquor," Robin murmured. "I figured she might need it."
Rohit stared at him. "That's your logic? Seriously?"
Robin didn't flinch. "I've been there, sir. When something like this breaks a person, the grief hits harder than anyone expects. She just lost her marriage. If she's left alone with it too long… she might lose her footing completely. Just in case."
