The haveli had never felt so suffocating. Sunlight poured through the jali screens in golden bars, but the air inside the Rathore family dining hall felt thick, heavy with unspoken accusations. Meera sat at the long table in a pale peach saree, pallu draped modestly over her shoulder to conceal the evidence of last night’s dungeon session. The high-necked blouse hid most of the damage: purple bite marks ringing her nipples, faint crop welts crossing the undersides of her heavy boobs, rope burns like delicate red bracelets around her wrists. Every time she reached for the paratha or lifted her chai cup, a tiny wince betrayed her.

Arjun watched her.