The house was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Veer sat in his leather chair, the door to his study half-locked. The image of lila at the riverside was burned into his mind—the way the wet cotton had clung to her fair skin and the way her lush, eighteen-year-old body had glowed under the sun. His hand moved with a heavy, frustrated pace, his mind completely consumed by the girl he had been manipulating for weeks.

Suddenly, the door creaked open. Veer didn't stop in time. His wife stood there, framed by the dim light of the hallway. She didn't look shocked; she looked tired, her eyes filled with a sad, sharp understanding of what her husband was becoming. She looked at his hand, then at the empty space where she knew he was imagining another woman.