The day of Aman’s return arrived with the jarring normality of a train schedule. The monsoon had retreated, leaving a scrubbed-clean sky and a brittle, expectant tension in the bungalow that had nothing to do with the weather. Vikram had been preternaturally calm, almost detached, in the days leading up to it. He gave no instructions, made no threats. His possession was a settled fact, a silent treaty written on Reema’s skin and in the way her eyes dropped whenever he entered a room.

Aman’s taxi crunched on the gravel driveway in the late afternoon. Reema’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stood in the foyer, wearing a modest, high-necked salwar kameez she had chosen specifically for its chaste coverage. Vikram stood a few paces behind her, near the door to his study, a newspaper in his hand, the picture of paternal welcome.