The afternoon sun poured through the half-open curtains like molten gold, turning the bedroom into a slow oven. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead—blades cutting through thick, humid air but offering little relief. Ishani stood before the dressing table in a deep maroon saree she had chosen almost absently—silk so soft it clung to every damp curve of her body. The blouse was deliberately revealing for the heat: low-cut in front, backless except for thin crisscross doris, full sleeves rolled to her elbows. Sweat had already darkened the border near her breasts, turning the maroon fabric almost black where it pressed against her skin. Beads of perspiration gathered in the valley between her breasts, trickled down her sternum, pooled in her navel, slid along the curve of her waist, and soaked the back of her blouse until it stuck transparently to her spine.

Her hair—still damp from an earlier bath—was gathered in a loose knot at her nape, but stray strands clung wetly to her neck and shoulders. She was trying to focus—trying to steel herself for the confrontation with Ajay that had been burning in her chest since yesterday—but her mind kept drifting to Virat.