As the morning routine concluded with the twins safely off to preschool, Ishani slipped away to the privacy of the dressing room adjoining the master bedroom. The full-length mirror captured her reflection in unforgiving detail, and for the first time in days, she truly looked—really looked—at the woman staring back.

The sindoor in her parting was bright and perfectly applied, the mangalsutra rested heavily between her full, slightly bruised breasts, the chooda on her wrists gleamed like fresh marital shackles. Her lips were still swollen from Virat’s morning kisses, her neck dotted with faint love bites hidden beneath the pallu of her pink saree. Her nipples, raw from his relentless kneading, pressed visibly against the thin blouse fabric. Between her thighs, the tender ache from his fingers and tongue throbbed with every step, a constant reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed her body. She looked every inch the newlywed bride—radiant, ravished, owned.