The restaurant Vikrant chose sat on a cliffside overlooking Lake Como, its private corner table tucked behind tall potted palms and a thick linen curtain. Sunlight filtered through the fabric, casting golden stripes across the white tablecloth, while the low murmur of other diners remained just audible. Vikrant had reserved the spot specifically because it offered the illusion of privacy while allowing every gasp and wet slap to carry.

Meera arrived in a pale-yellow sundress that barely covered the tops of her thighs. Vikrant’s hand rested possessively on the small of her back as the maître d’ led them to their corner. The moment they sat, he leaned close.