The memory was a fresh wound, still glistening. It had been three nights since the power failure, three nights since the world had cracked open. The formalities of the house—the shared meals, the polite inquiries about her day—now hung over them like a thin, brittle veneer. Every glance from Vikram was no longer that of a father-in-law, but of a man assessing his property. Every word he spoke in his deep baritone felt like a finger tracing the secret, shameful heat between her legs.

It was after dinner. Vikram had retired to his study with a brandy, as was his custom. Reema was clearing the dishes in the kitchen, the clatter of china loud in the silent house. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind was back in the dark, on the creaking desk, on the feeling of being utterly filled.