The honeymoon suite had finally been left behind after ten intense days. Aryan had driven them back to his small but private rented apartment on the outskirts of the city—close enough to Disha’s campus but far from prying eyes. This was their new “home,” a two-bedroom space he had prepared months in advance with hidden cameras and soundproofing in the bedroom. Disha stood in front of the mirror in their bedroom, carefully draping a soft maroon saree around her body. The pleats fell elegantly, the pallu draped modestly over her shoulder, covering the fresh bite marks and fading bruises on her upper arms and collarbone. The mangalsutra hung prominently around her neck, and the red sindoor in her parting glowed brightly—a symbol of her new status as Aryan’s wife.

It had been only two days since they returned, but the routine had already resumed with full force. Last night, Aryan had taken her three times—once in the kitchen while she cooked, once bent over the balcony railing, and finally in bed until dawn. Her thighs still ached, and a new dark hickey hid beneath the saree’s blouse.