The resort’s spa was tucked into a secluded wing—cedar-paneled walls, heated stone floors, the faint scent of eucalyptus and sandalwood drifting from the steam room. Late afternoon on day four, the four of them had booked the entire “Couples’ Retreat Package”—private massage suite, hot stone therapy, aromatherapy oils, and strict instructions to the staff: “No interruptions. Two hours minimum.”

They arrived wrapped in white resort robes—nothing underneath. The therapist (a quiet, muscular man in his late 20s named Arjun—different from their friend, but the name made Neha smirk) had set up four massage tables side by side, dim lights, soft flute music, bottles of warm oil lined up like offerings.