The Phoenix atelier occupied a restored colonial bungalow on a quiet, tree-lined street in Colaba, a stone's throw from the Gateway of India. Its whitewashed walls and mint-green shutters were draped in bougainvillea, and the garden had been transformed into a courtyard where clients could sip champagne while models drifted past in silks and embroideries. Inside, the rooms had been gutted and rebuilt into a temple of minimalism and light. White marble floors. Walls of exposed brick. Mannequins draped in half-finished garments. A cutting table that had once belonged to Priya's grandmother, its surface scarred by decades of scissors and pins.

Tonight, the atelier was lit by a thousand candles.