The atmosphere in the house had thickened, turning into an invisible, suffocating web that Vikram spun with calculated patience. His cruelty was no longer sporadic; it was an architectural feature of their daily lives. He had moved past the point of hiding his intentions, instead opting for a psychological siege, where every gesture was a reminder that Ananya was merely waiting for her inevitable consumption.

His favorite tactic was the posture of dominance. He would sit in the high-backed velvet armchair in the study, his legs spread wide—a deliberate, vulgar display of his masculinity that forced Ananya to acknowledge him every time she entered the room. He would wait for her to approach with his evening coffee, his gaze never once leaving her. He would start at her feet, his eyes crawling up her shins, over the curve of her calves, and lingering on her thighs with a clinical, predatory hunger that made her skin prickle with a feverish, cold shiver.