Reha's trips lengthened—a week in Delhi for "negotiations," she claimed, but really stolen nights with Aryan, her body entangled in sheets that smelled of his cologne, far from the apartment's stifling air. Her calls were brief, probing: "Any progress?" Kriya lied smoothly now, the money envelope's promise a chain around her neck, but the guilt was eroding under the weight of her growing desire for Dhruv.

The apartment became their private world, a cocoon of unspoken yearnings. Dhruv cooked—simple dal and rice—but ate with eyes for Kriya alone, his fork pausing mid-air as he watched her lips wrap around bites, imagining them elsewhere. She dressed for him unconsciously, or perhaps not so unconsciously now: tight kurtis in jewel tones that clung like lovers' hands, sapphire blue hugging the flare of her hips, deep gold accentuating the generous swell of her cleavage, the fabric so thin it whispered secrets of her hardening nipples with every breath.