The rain pounded against the windows of Aisha's Mumbai apartment as I lugged my overnight bag up the stairs. It was supposed to be a simple girls' night—me, Aisha, and a binge-watch of our favorite trashy shows. We'd been best friends since college, inseparable through breakups and bad jobs. But her dad, Mr. Kapoor—Vikram, as he insisted I call him—had always been a quiet presence in the background. At 48, he was fit from his gym routine, with salt-and-pepper hair, a sharp jawline, and eyes that lingered a beat too long whenever I visited. I'd caught him staring at my legs in shorts once or twice, but brushed it off as harmless.