The Mumbai night had settled into a humid, suffocating blanket over the city, but inside the penthouse, the air conditioning hummed with mechanical indifference. Priya lay in the master bedroom, the king-sized bed feeling like an ocean of empty space around her. She had fallen into it out of sheer exhaustion, still wearing the saree she had donned that morning a soft, peach-colored silk that Rohan had once said he liked. The blouse was the same tight one from her wedding blouses, the fabric straining against her chest, but she had stopped caring about comfort. She only cared about being seen, and since Rohan wasn't there to see her, the saree had become a habit, a desperate plea to a husband who was never looking.