The house had become their private temple of depravity. Every surface bore witness: the living-room sofa where he had taken her from behind while the TV played a cricket match no one watched, the balcony where he had pressed her against the railing at 3 a.m. with the city lights glittering below, the puja room where he had laid her on the woollen asana and licked between her thighs while the incense still smoked and the gods stared down in silent judgment.

Now only one room remained untouched—the small study at the far end of the corridor. Raj’s study. The place where he used to sit for hours preparing presentations, where framed photos of their wedding still stood on the desk: Priya in red lehenga, smiling shyly beside her groom; another of the three of them—Raj, Priya, Arvind—at the reception, Arvind’s hand resting just a fraction too long on her bare waist.