The April sun burned overhead, sweat prickling at my temples and sliding down the back of my neck.

  Ahead, a pair of massive iron gates. Beyond which a cluster of short, blocky buildings sat nestled within a walled garden overflowing with late-spring flowers.

  I strode up the tarmac path, the heavy bag of containers swinging in my hand. My footsteps were muted against the sunbaked ground. The warm air carried the fragrance of jasmine and marigolds. Hidden from sight, birds chirped in nearby trees.

  It was in this idyllic milieu that I was ambushed.

  A sudden rush of bodies. A swarm of reporters closed in, their voices buzzing like angry wasps.

  Microphones thrust toward me in a tangle of black cords and outstretched arms. Cameras clicked in unison, a sharp and relentless firing squad.

  A young woman, her lips a disconcerting shade of charcoal, practically jabbed her mic into my mouth. A lifetime of dealing with overzealous media professionals was all that kept me from flinching away.

  “How do you respond to claims that HNP functionaries leaked the evidence against Zintra,” she demanded. “In an act of political sabotage?”

  “Would you consider Sumedh Palika’s suicide a fitting punishment for his role in the adulteration scandal?” barked a bespectacled youth, press card swinging against his chest.

  A large, green-clad man lifted his camera, the flash blinding me for a second.

  My chest tightened, heartbeat quickening.

  “Do you truly believe Palika took his own life?” The black-lipped woman cut in sharply, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Or might there be reason to suspect foul play?”

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  “Any truth to the rumors that your father might’ve had a vested interest in silencing Palika?” screeched a middle-aged woman in red, her massive topknot bobbing as she jostled forward.

  “Or could it have been a conspiracy by Leena Sen to sway the outcome of the Fadani elections,” the bespectacled man shouted over her. “By cutting off the HPA’s funding at a critical moment?”

  I called on every bit of training I’d absorbed over a lifetime spent in the public eye. First, as the newly-motherless seer son of Zilan’s chief minister. Then, as Farida Naag’s prized mannequin – her favored model for every wild, outrageous experiment she dreamed up in the world of children’s fashion.

  Fifteen years of her endless fashion shows, each more eccentric than the last. It’d taught me the art of composure under a barrage of camera flashes and press interrogation.

  Smile for the photographers. Pose. Turn left, then right – make sure they get every angle.

  Eyes open. Smile bright. Mouth shut.

  If pressed, never say more than five words at a time.

  Albeit, the reporters who haunted Ammi’s exhibitions were more gossip columnists than investigative journalists. But how different could two pieces cut from the same cloth be, no matter the designer label you stitched onto one or the other?

  “Hard-hitting questions. All very important, I’m sure. But you’re asking the wrong member of the Naag clan.” I flashed the cameras my best grin and lifted the bag in my hand. “I’m just the delivery boy – here to bring Papa his lunch. Politics, as you know, isn’t my forte.”

  “Another protestor in Zilan has set himself on fire over the construction of the Minjal Stadium.” The black-lipped woman fired back, unfazed. “Could the timing be deliberate – meant to hit alongside the Zintra leaks? Cripple the HPA with back-to-back blows, clearing the way for HNP and its allies to dominate elections for the next few years?”

  Not to be outdone, the red-clad woman with the topknot jumped in. “Word is you turned a tidy profit, short-selling Zintra stocks weeks in advance.” She leaned in, thrusting the microphone forward like a sword. “With your father’s party faltering, would it be fair to say you’ve switched sides? Joined your stepmother’s camp?”

  I waved a dismissive hand. “No wonder our media couldn’t uncover proof of Zintra’s adulteration.” A brief, deliberate pause. “If cooking up such baseless gossip is how they spend their time.”

  This triggered an outburst of agitated protests and counter-questions, derailing the original line of inquiry.

  Just enough of a distraction for me to inch my way through the crowd of reporters and slip past the iron gates. Safely out of the press’s reach.

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