The door swung open, framing shivangi aunty Priya in the warm light from the room. Her elegant sari, a cascade of emerald green, seemed to mock the raw, exposed scene before her. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes—those piercing, knowing eyes—widening not just in shock, but in a kind of horrified, rapt fascination.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The distant wedding music, the chatter from the gardens below, the frantic thumping of their own hearts—it all ceased to exist. There was only the three of them, locked in a tableau of devastating intimacy. Harshad, still buried deep inside Shivangi, his body a protective, possessive shield over her. And Shivangi, her back arched against the cold railing, her heavy lahenga a puddled heap of abandoned finery at their feet, her body glistening with a sheen of sweat and the undeniable evidence of their passion.