Archi adjusted the pallu of her maroon saree for the hundredth time, the heavy gold mangalsutra resting cool and familiar between her breasts. At twenty-two, she still looked every bit the new bride—fair skin glowing from the evening oil lamp, long black hair braided neatly, kohl-lined eyes that betrayed a quiet sadness. Her husband, Vikram, had been abroad for eight months now, chasing a lucrative project in Dubai. The family home in their quiet Lucknow mohalla felt emptier with each passing week. Only her devar, Rishaan—Vikram’s twenty-year-old younger brother—remained with her under the same roof, along with the old servants who minded their own business.

Rishaan had always been the mischievous one, the college dropout with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. Lately, though, something had shifted. His gaze lingered too long on her swelling bosom, especially after he had started “helping” her with those strange herbal drinks two months ago.