The old wooden door to the living room creaked as Rajesh stepped inside, his shoulders slumped under the weight of another lonely evening. It had been three years since his wife, Sunita, passed away from cancer. The house, once filled with her laughter and the aroma of her cooking, now felt like a tomb. His son, Arjun, sat on the sofa scrolling through his phone, while Maahi, Arjun’s young wife of two years, moved gracefully in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Maahi was 24, with smooth fair skin, long black hair that cascaded down her back, and a curvaceous figure that filled out her simple salwar kameez perfectly. Her full breasts and wide hips had always drawn Rajesh’s hungry glances, though he kept them hidden.

“Beta, baitho yahan mere paas,” Rajesh said softly, patting the sofa beside him. (Son, sit here with me.)