The midday sun hammered against the sandstone walls of the haveli, turning the courtyard into a kiln. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine and old dust. Sarita moved through the corridors like a ghost of silk and gold, her pale skin contrasting sharply with the deep crimson of her sari. The fabric clung to her hips, tracing the wide curve of her backside and the heavy swell of her breasts with every step.

She paused at the entrance to the dining hall, adjusting the pallu over her shoulder. It never stayed put, always sliding down to reveal the creamy slope of her shoulder and the edge of her blouse.