“Ashok,” Priya said deliberately, “was the last person to treat me like family.” One beat. Two. “Well,” Bhumika said in a controlled voice. “If that’s how you feel, then that’s how you feel.” “Bhumika, I am literally your servant.” “And what else could you be? My long-lost sibling, perhaps? A distant cousin? I could hardly adopt you, could I? Being the general’s wife—using the general—requires certain sacrifices. It always has.” Even in shadow—even in the sangam—Bhumika’s hand drifted without conscious thought to her waist. Priya felt oddly ashamed. She looked away. Why are we always so ugly
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