Vikram’s mind raced. Ananya’s return had awakened a tempest of emotions he had buried for years. The intimacy of their dinner, the way her laughter seemed to weave through the darkness of his isolation, left him both exhilarated and terrified. It was a dangerous game they were playing, one that teetered on the edge of morality.

Dawn broke over Rathore Haveli like a slow bleed, orange light slicing through jali screens, painting the marble floors in stripes of fire. Vikram was already up. Shirtless in the courtyard, doing pull-ups on the old iron bar until sweat ran in rivers down the scars on his back. Muscles flexed and released with mechanical rage. He needed the burn to quiet the roar in his head: her voice moaning Papa… papa...while she squirted like a broken fountain.