Priya was the picture of innocence, a 19-year-old girl with wide doe eyes, long black hair that cascaded down her back, and a slender body that still carried the softness of youth. She lived in a modest two-story home in the suburbs with her father, Raj, a burly man in his late 40s, widowed for years and hardened by work at the factory. The house was quiet most days, filled with the scent of home-cooked meals and the faint hum of the ceiling fan. Priya spent her time studying for college entrance exams, her room a sanctuary of textbooks and posters of Bollywood stars. She trusted her father completely, seeing him as her protector, unaware of the dark desires brewing in him.

One humid evening, after her mother had passed away years ago, Raj sat in the living room nursing a bottle of cheap whiskey. The alcohol burned his throat, stirring frustrations he'd buried deep. Priya was in the kitchen, humming softly as she washed dishes, her simple cotton salwar kameez clinging to her damp skin from the heat. She bent over the sink, her ass cheeks outlined faintly through the fabric, innocent and unaware.