The week that followed the green-silk dinner passed in ordinary fragments that no longer felt ordinary. Priya moved through them like a woman carrying a second, heavier body inside her own. School runs. Quiet dinners with Rajesh, who noticed nothing beyond the usual softness of her voice. Brief, distracted sex one night in which she kept her eyes closed and her mind carefully blank while her husband finished quickly and rolled away. The unlocked door remained a constant fact. Twice more her father-in-law came after midnight; once Vikram arrived alone and used her on the living-room floor with the lights still on, his mouth on her breasts until milk beaded and ran. Each visit left her more tender, more open, the heavy soft weight of her breasts carrying the memory of every mouth that had claimed them.

By Friday the residual ache between her legs had become a low, constant pulse. She packed a small bag without being told— the green silk folded carefully, a spare set of simple clothes, nothing underneath either. The message that arrived on her phone was brief: Guest house. 4 p.m. Stay until morning. The door will be unlocked when you arrive.