They ditched the cinema for The Lantern Room, Guna’s trendiest rooftop restaurant — the kind of place with Edison bulbs strung overhead, soft jazz remixes of Bollywood classics, and QR-code menus projected onto your phone. The air was warm but breezy, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the balcony planters.
A hostess in a sleek black saree led them to a semi-private corner table with low leather chairs. The skyline glittered faintly in the distance, and fairy lights danced in the reflection of the wine glasses.
“This is fancy,” Krishna said, sliding into a chair.
“Mid-rich perks, baby,” Adi replied, snapping his fingers at the waiter. “And I’m starving.”
They ordered paneer tikka sliders, truffle fries, and cold coffee served in martini glasses — plus a round of mango mocktails for the table.
The moment the food arrived, Mimi shifted her chair closer to Krishna’s without even pretending to be subtle. She picked up one of the sliders, took a bite, and then held the rest out toward him.
“Try it,” she said, her voice all soft insistence.
“I literally ordered my own,” Krishna replied, but he still leaned forward and took a bite.
Mimi grinned, satisfied. “See? Tastes better when I share.”
Across the table, Ishi arched a brow. “Or maybe it just tastes like his own food, but delayed.”
“That’s the jealousy talking,” Mimi teased, wiping a crumb from the corner of Krishna’s mouth with her thumb.
Ishi’s silver rings tapped against her glass — one, two, three beats — before she smirked. “Jealous? Please. I just prefer my food without… fingerprints.”
Adi burst out laughing, nearly choking on a fry. Ravi just shook his head, smiling quietly like he was watching a tennis match neither side realized they were playing.
The conversation shifted to Krishna’s idea — the seed that would soon become Threaded Hearts.
Krishna pulled out his tablet, flipping it around so they could see a few rough sketches: embroidered jackets blending traditional motifs with streetwear silhouettes, sarees with hidden stitched messages inside the lining.
“I want it to be more than clothes,” he said. “Every piece should feel like a story you can wear.”
Ravi leaned forward. “So, couture with emotional weight.”
“Exactly,” Krishna said.
Mimi, still half-focused on him, added, “And we can model some of them ourselves. I call first dibs on anything pastel.”
“Figures,” Ishi said, already pulling out her phone to scroll through fabric suppliers. “We’ll need to lock down a design process before we even think about modeling.”
As the brainstorming continued, Mimi kept finding little excuses to make contact — leaning her head against Krishna’s shoulder when she laughed at one of Adi’s jokes, brushing her hand across his arm when reaching for the fries.
At one point, she leaned in so close to show him something on her phone that her hair fell across his cheek. “Look — bunny-print scarf. You’d wear this, right?”
“I’d consider it,” he said, smiling.
Ishi’s eyes flicked to the scarf photo for all of two seconds before she returned her gaze to her screen, her jaw just a shade tighter.
By the time dessert — molten chocolate cake with vanilla gelato — arrived, they’d decided to spend the next two nights at Hotel Aarya, one of the nicest boutique hotels in the city, to plan the brand launch without distractions.
Mimi clapped her hands. “Slumber party vibes! I call the room next to Krish.”
Ishi didn’t even look up from the hotel’s booking page on her phone. “Or we just get adjoining rooms and save everyone’s voices from shouting across hallways.”
“I wasn’t planning on shouting,” Mimi said with a sweet smile.
“No,” Ishi replied, “you were planning on hovering.”
Ravi coughed into his glass to hide a laugh. Adi muttered, “This is gonna be fun,” like he’d just gotten front-row tickets to the best reality show of the year.
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