Virat's evenings were ritualized in amber—late-night whiskey sessions in the study, a room of teak and leather-bound tomes, lit by a single brass lamp. He poured from a crystal decanter, the liquid glinting like captured fire, and expected her presence. "A wife shares her husband's burdens," he'd say, patting the cushion beside his armchair.

At first, Ishani sat primly, hands folded in her lap, saree draped modestly. But Virat's orthodoxy extended to indulgence; on the fifteenth night, he slid a glass toward her. "Drink."