The front door had barely clicked shut behind Ranjeet and Priya when Mr. Arvind Sharma felt the last thread of his sanity snap. The silence of the living room pressed down on him like a physical weight, thick and suffocating, yet charged with the lingering ghost of her presence.
The air still carried her perfume, a cheap jasmine body spray she’d used since she was a teenager, now tangled obscenely with the raw, animal musk of Ranjeet’s sweat and the unmistakable brine of fresh semen. It clung to the sofa cushions, to the dust motes dancing in the yellow lamplight, to the back of Arvind’s throat. He could taste it. Taste them. His daughter and that man, together, in this very room, just an hour ago.
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