The ancient Rathore haveli in Udaipur stood like a silent witness to centuries of secrets, its red sandstone walls glowing under the late afternoon sun. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine, sandalwood, and rising tension. Meera Sharma, 24, stood before the tall mirror in her chamber, draped in a heavy maroon lehenga that clung to her curves like a lover’s greedy hands. The blouse was low-cut, barely containing her full, heavy boobs, the deep neckline revealing the lacy edge of her black bra. Every breath made her chest rise and fall, nipples already stiff against the fabric from the nervous heat building inside her.

She was to marry Arjun Rathore tomorrow — the eldest son, handsome in a distant, princely way, but cold as marble. The alliance would secure land, honor, and wealth for both families. Meera had accepted it quietly, as good Indian daughters do. But her body had other ideas.