The room was thick with the scent of jasmine and the low, rhythmic hum of the ceiling fan. Piya lay sprawled across the cool cotton sheets, the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains and painting silver stripes across her skin. She was a vision of contrast—the innocence of her white spaghetti-strap top against the defiant, fiery red of her lace thong.

She heard the door click shut, followed by the heavy, deliberate sound of Raj’s footsteps. She didn’t move, but her breath hitched, her back arching slightly in anticipation.