Morning light poured through the lattice windows like molten gold, turning the haveli courtyard into a furnace by 8 a.m. Poonam moved through the house like a ghost in red silk—exactly as ordered. No blouse. No petticoat. Nothing but the thin, clinging fabric draped low on her hips, the pallu barely covering her breasts. Every breath made the silk shift, nipples scraping against it until they stood out like dark coins pressing through wet cloth.

She had barely slept. Rajesh had rolled over twice in the night, mumbling apologies for his “performance,” then fallen back into snores. She’d lain there with his thin cum drying between her thighs, mixed with the thicker traces Vijay had left earlier, her clit so swollen it hurt to walk. She hadn’t touched herself. Couldn’t. The denial was a living thing now, coiled tight in her belly.