Friday afternoon the monsoon held its breath between downpours, the sky a low, bruised ceiling over the city. Priya packed a small bag with the green silk, a spare cotton shift, and nothing else. She told Rajesh she was spending the weekend with the same college friend in Bandra; he nodded absently, already half-focused on the laptop he would carry to the office the next morning. Their daughter was once again with the cousin. The unlocked door at home would wait, empty and patient, until Sunday night.

The address Vikram had texted belonged to a mid-century building in a quieter lane off Carter Road, the kind of place with a narrow stairwell and heavy wooden doors that kept secrets well. She arrived just after five, the green silk already wrapped around her bare body beneath a light raincoat. The fabric slid with every step across the soft undersides of her breasts and the still-tender lips between her thighs. Milk had begun to bead during the taxi ride simply from the knowledge of what waited; two faint dark circles marked the silk by the time she climbed the stairs.