The entire living room reeked of tension, stale incense, and the faint, bitter scent of old regrets. The single ceiling fan whirred uselessly against the oppressive heat, but the real fire was in the air itself a slow, smouldering detonation of decades of hidden lust finally boiling to the surface. Priya stood in the centre of the worn Persian rug,her breathing ragged, and her father Arvind slumped against the teakwood cabinet as if someone had reached into his chest and yanked out every last shred of dignity he possessed.

Ranjeet, her sasur, a man whose net worth bled past Ambani’s wildest fantasies leaned back against the sofa, one ankle crossed over his knee, observing the devastation he had engineered with the calm, predatory satisfaction of a panther watching a pair of wounded deer. His fingers still bore the phantom warmth of Priya’s skin, and the ghost of her involuntary moan still hung in the room like the aftertaste of a forbidden fruit.