The morning air in the chawl was thick with the scent of incense and the sound of distant temple bells, a stark contrast to the sterile, alcohol-scented chill of the Malhotra mansion. Rohini had crept back into her home at 3:30pm after attending her college, her feet aching and her head swimming with lines of code and the memory of Aarav’s teeth against her skin. She had scrubbed herself raw in the communal bathroom, trying to wash away the scent of sandalwood and the feeling of his hands on her waist, but the bruise on her neck remained—a purple-red blossom of shame that she hid beneath the high collar of a simple cotton kurta.

She had expected her mother to be standing by the door with a thousand questions, but instead, she found her father sitting by the window, a cup of tea in his hand and a rare, genuine smile on his face.