Anjali Reddi Chapter 1: Maya Sharma hated mornings. Not in the poetic, “oh I need coffee before I can function” way people posted on Instagram. No, she actually hated mornings—because mornings meant meetings, meetings meant people, and people meant expectations. And expectations were just heartbreak in PowerPoint form. Her alarm blared at 7:30 AM sharp—set to an aggressive tabla remix that could probably revive the dead. She sat up on her bed in her neat Indiranagar apartment, looked out at the half-sunny, half-smoggy Bengaluru sky, and groaned. “New day, new inbox full of garbage,” she muttered, grabbing her phone. Fifty-two…