The lazy Sunday afternoon in Rawat Residency felt suspended in time—sunlight filtering through half-drawn curtains, distant laughter from the garden where Anaya and Kanan were playing with the neighbor’s kids, the faint clink of vessels from the kitchen where Gayatri supervised lunch. Inside their bedroom, steam curled from the half-open bathroom door, carrying the scent of Virat’s sandalwood shower gel.

Ishani was folding a fresh set of his clothes on the bed—black saree with delicate pink floral prints draped low on her hips, sleeveless blouse hugging her curves, small mangalsutra nestling deep between her breasts, longer one brushing her navel with every movement. Her chooda chimed softly; payal tinkled with each step.