The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the warm kitchen, lit dimly by the amber glow of the pendant lights above. It was past midnight, and the world was asleep—but Ruhani stood barefoot against the marble counter, her eyes glossy, her breath uneven.

Seven months pregnant, her swollen belly curved out beautifully beneath her loose cotton kurti, which clung slightly from the sweat of standing too long. Her emotions had been heavy all day—conflict, pain, betrayal. But now, as she looked at Atharva standing in front of her, guilt in his eyes and longing on his face, something shifted.