The amber glow of the evening sun had long since surrendered to the neon pulse of the city by the time Aradhya stood before the vanity mirror in Kartik’s suite. She was dressed for the public eye: a heavy, glittering designer cocktail dress that clung to her fragile frame, sequins catching the artificial light like scattered stars. To the paparazzi waiting outside, she was the untouchable global idol, a vision of effortless glamour and youthful perfection. To the men who owned her, she was merely a canvas to be dressed, displayed, and controlled.

As Kartik stepped up behind her, his reflection loomed large in the glass. He reached out, his fingers tangling roughly in the styled waves of her hair, tilting her head back at an agonizing angle. His breath was warm against her ear, laced with the scent of expensive bourbon and menace.