The scent of cardamom and simmering tomatoes clung to Vanya’s skin, a comforting blanket against the chill seeping from the granite countertops. Her fingers, still slick with olive oil, moved with practiced ease, dicing onions into perfect, translucent crescents. Each rhythmic chop of the knife echoed the turbulent rhythm in her chest. Ahaan, her husband, her supposed rock, had shattered their world with a single, careless text message. A name. A time. A hotel room. The words replayed, a venomous mantra. She pressed the flat of the blade against the cutting board, the cool metal a stark contrast to the inferno raging inside her.