Voice low, terrifyingly calm:
Surya turns. His face collapses—shock, then shame, then a pathetic attempt at composure. “Vahini… this is not—”
Meera sees her first. Freezes.
She looks at Meera. Then at Surya.
Surya’s back. A woman’s manicured hand on his chest. She’s younger— (28, bold, careless). Her silk blouse hangs open. Surya whispers something into her ear.
The sound of her anklets—soft, deliberate—echoes down the hallway like a countdown.
Vahini steps inside. Places the thermos gently on the dresser, next to her wedding photo.
Vahini’s footsteps slow. Her dupatta drags on the floor. She stops outside the master bedroom. The door is ajar.
Vahini’s eyes. No tears yet. Just a slow, cold realization—like watching your own house burn from across the street.
She watches.
Through the gap: