The late morning sun poured over the sprawling private garden behind their estate. Birds chirped lazily, and a faint breeze danced through the trees, brushing over vibrant petals and sun-drenched grass. But in one secluded corner, behind a high wall of jasmine creepers, a storm was brewing — raw, passionate, and burning.

Diya was eight months pregnant — her belly full, round, radiant. The pregnancy glow on her skin was intensified by the golden sunlight falling through the leaves. She wore nothing but a loose, thin cotton robe that barely reached her thighs. Her breasts were swollen, nipples visible through the fabric, her curves fuller than ever.