
Karan arrived home at 7:50 p.m. Saturday—wife and daughter still in Pune until Sunday evening. The house felt haunted: every corner reminded him of normal life now poisoned. The cum-stained pillow from last night had been washed (twice), sheets changed, but the lavender scent lingered like a ghost.
Mia texted at 7:55: We’re already inside. Upstairs. Bedroom. Door open. Don’t speak until I say. Bring your guilt.





















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