That same day—still buzzing from the morning’s revelations and the quiet intimacy of cooking together—Ishani had asked if she could use his private swimming pool. “Vee, thodi der swim kar loon? Bahut garmi lag rahi hai.” He’d smiled that slow, dark smile of his and nodded. “Jaana, jo mann kare karo. Main terrace pe hoon agar kuch chahiye toh awaaz dena.”

She changed in his guest room—slipping into a modest black swimsuit she’d brought, then layering a loose, scanty cover-up shirt and matching shorts over it for modesty on the way up. The pool was on the rooftop terrace of his high-rise apartment—secluded, infinity-edge, city skyline glittering beyond the glass railing. Late afternoon sun turned the water into molten gold.