The farmhouse in Chhatarpur sat on two acres of manicured lawn, surrounded by high walls that kept the Delhi noise out and the secrets in. Kavita stood by the bedroom window, watching Rana wash the Mercedes in the driveway below—his shirt off, his back glistening with sweat, his muscles rippling with every stroke of the cloth.

Five years he'd worked for her husband. Five years of watching him from balconies and car windows, smelling his sweat mixed with cheap talc, noticing the way his rough hands gripped the steering wheel. Five years of marriage to a man who touched her like she was porcelain.