The Delhi monsoon had settled into a slow, suffocating drizzle, the kind that clung to skin and seeped into bones. Inside the high-rise apartment in Delhi the air conditioner hummed weakly against the humidity, doing little to cool the tension that had been building for weeks. Priya Sharma, twenty-three, with skin the color of warm honey and curves that made men stumble over their words, stood in the kitchen, her fingers trembling slightly as she rolled out the dough for rotis. The thin cotton of her nightdress—just a flimsy, sleeveless thing she’d thrown on after her shower—clung to her body, the damp fabric outlining the swell of her breasts and the dark peaks of her nipples. She could feel his eyes on her before she even turned around.