The monsoon had finally arrived in Chandanpur, turning the dusty village roads into thick mud and trapping Shivom and Payal inside the sweltering intimacy of their small home. The sound of the rain against the tin roof was deafening, creating a private world where only the two of them existed.

Shivom stood by the window, his chest bare, watching the lightning illuminate the fields. He was twenty-nine, his body a map of hard labor—shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world, and skin bronzed by the sun. Behind him, Payal sat on the edge of the bed. She had just turned seventeen, and the "innocent girl" he had married two months ago was beginning to bloom into something far more dangerous to his self-control.