Next morning, Ishani stirred in the tangled sheets, her body still humming from the rough, erotic intensity of the previous night. The faint ache between her thighs and the tender marks on her skin served as vivid reminders of Virat's possessive claiming—his hands kneading, mouth fucking, fingers stretching her to shattering limits. She slipped quietly from the bed, careful not to wake him, and moved to the dressing room. There, she changed into a light pink satin saree that whispered against her curves like a lover's touch. The fabric was smooth and glossy, draping elegantly over her voluptuous figure, the pallu tucked neatly at her waist. The matching blouse was low-cut, hugging her heavy breasts snugly, the thin straps accentuating the creamy swells and the valley where her mangalsutra nestled provocatively. Her chooda bangles clinked softly as she adjusted the pleats, and the sindoor in her parting glowed fresh and bright. She looked every bit the devoted wife, but the resolve from yesterday lingered—she needed to maintain distance, to remember this was all a facade.