The scent of sandalwood and marigolds still clung to Karishma’s hair, a fragrant ghost of the puja ceremony that felt a lifetime away. Now, under the hot, white lights of the photography studio, she felt only the cold grip of inevitability. The crew buzzed around her, adjusting reflectors and testing flashes, their eyes carefully avoiding hers. She was the star, yet she felt like a specimen on a slide.

Harshad stood near the director’s monitor, a predatory stillness to him amidst the chaos. His eyes, dark and intense, tracked her every move. He didn’t need to speak his commands; they were transmitted through the air between them, a frequency only she could hear. She was to pose with a vintage camera, a beautiful, heavy piece of equipment mounted on a sturdy tripod. The director, Ajay, a charismatic man with sharp eyes that seemed to undress her with a producer’s approval rather than desire, gave her gentle instructions.