The bedroom smelled of rain-soaked earth and the faint musk of their earlier coupling in the living room. Outside, Mumbai’s late-June monsoon had finally broken—fat drops hammering the windows like impatient fingers. Inside, the air-conditioning hummed low, but it couldn’t cool the fever that had taken root between them.

Priya stood naked in the centre of the room, arms at her sides, palms turned outward in unconscious surrender. The only thing she still wore was the mangalsutra—its black beads and gold pendant resting heavy between her breasts, swaying gently with each shallow breath. Arvind had removed everything else himself, piece by piece, like unwrapping a gift he had waited years to claim.