The sacred fire crackled between them as Priya circled Rahul seven times, her heavy red lehenga swaying, ghungroo anklets tinkling with every step. The mangalsutra was now around her neck, sindoor bright red in her hair parting. She was officially Mrs. Priya Rahul Kapoor — Rahul’s wife in the eyes of God, family, and society.

But as she took the last phera, her eyes involuntarily flicked toward the man sitting on the ornate chair like a king. Vikram Kapoor — her sasur ji — watched her with dark, burning intensity. His gaze traveled slowly over her heavily embroidered choli that pushed her 34D breasts up into deep, tempting cleavage, down to the tiny waist cinched by the lehenga, and then to the flare of her wide, fertile hips.