The penthouse clock ticked into the velvet hush of evening, Mumbai's skyline a glittering abyss beyond the balcony doors, when Virat finally returned—his office battles won in bloodless boardrooms, but the war within him raged unchecked. At 38, the weight of vows and vendettas pressed like a lover's thigh against his ribs, his cock stirring traitorously at the mere thought of her in bridal scarlet, defiance in her eyes. He shrugged off his blazer in the foyer, shirt sleeves rolled to expose veined forearms scarred from old sins, the fabric clinging to his broad chest where the dragon tattoo lay dormant, waiting for fire.