The peeli sari clung to her like a second skin, its tissue thin silk whispering against her clamped nipples with every breath. Priya had never worn a sari this fine, this translucent, the kind of fabric that promised modesty but delivered nothing of the sort. In the harsh morning light streaming through the jali screens, Ranjeet could see the shadow of her areolas, the faint outline of the gold chain connecting her ruby tipped clamps, the curve of her waist cinched tight by the family heirloom kamarband.

But it was beneath the sari that the real secret lay.