The next morning, after returning to the haveli, they went down for lunch.

Manorama sat with her usual sharp gaze.

"Pata hai Yudhveer… tera bua ka beta baap banne wala hai."

["Do you know, Yudhveer… your aunt’s son is going to be a father."]

Yudhveer smiled, genuine and warm.

"Arey wah, yeh toh acchi baat hai."

['Oh wow, that’s great news."]

But Manorama’s tone shifted.

"Uski shaadi tere baad hui thi… lekin dekh, wo tere pehle baap banne wala hai."

["He got married after you… yet he’ll be a father before you."]

Yudhveer sighed, forehead tightening.

"Maa—"

But she cut him, eyes sliding sharply to Vamika.

"Pure samay toh tere saath chipki rehti hai… phir bhi abhi tak khush khabri nahi de paayi. Pata nahi kaisi ladki utha laaya."

["She sticks to you all day yet still hasn’t given good news. Don’t know what kind of girl you brought home."]

This time, Vamika didn’t just bow her head in shame.

She felt the sting, yes—

but before it could settle, Yudhveer’s voice struck the air like fire.

He didn’t raise his tone.

But the room stilled.

"Jab bacche ko hona hoga tab ho jayega. Yeh meri shaadi hai, koi pratiyogita nahi."

["A child will come when it's meant to. This is my marriage, not some competition."]

Then he paused.

Turned to his mother.

Then to Vamika.

Something steady.

Unshakeable.

"Maa, mujhe pata hai maine galat kiya hai… mera shaadi karne ka tareeka galat tha."

["Mother, I know I made a mistake… the way I married was wrong."]

He swallowed, then spoke the truth—not to hurt her, but to claim it.

"Lekin meri pasand nahi, mujhe shuru se  yahin pasand thi."

["But my choice wasn't, I liked her from the beginning"]

Vamika’s heart stopped.

Then it fluttered—soft, warm, alive.

Her mother’s death anniversary… the hawan…

the way he defended her fiercely from those gossiping relatives…

and now this.

He didn’t deny her.

He didn’t distance her.

He chose her.

In front of everyone.

Again.

Her eyes softened.

Not with tears—

but with a quiet, overflowing happiness.

Manorama’s mouth pressed thin, annoyed—but powerless.

Vamika lowered her gaze, but this time it wasn’t out of shame.

It was because her heart was too full.

She realized she wasn’t alone in this marriage.

He cared.

He protected.

He claimed.

A warmth bloomed in her chest—

not fear, not confusion—

but something dangerously close to love.

That morning itself, Yudhveer had to leave for the city.

Vamika stood near the jeep, her pallu fluttering in the soft breeze.

She didn’t speak—she couldn’t.

The thought of him leaving felt heavier now… because things between them had become gentle… real.

He stepped closer, looked at her for a long second, then lifted his hand and gently cupped her cheek.

"Main jaldi aa jaunga."

["I’ll return soon."]

She nodded, eyes soft.

"Dhyaan rakhna apna."

["Take care of yourself."]

And before she could respond, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead—slow, sure, tender.

Her breath shivered.

He got inside the jeep and left.

But the gesture… the intimacy…

did not go unseen.

Manorama had been standing at the verandah doorway, watching everything.

She didn’t comment then.

But later, when Vamika was folding clothes in the courtyard, Manorama arrived—eyes sharp and voice coated in venom.

"Behaya kahin ki. Itna sab kar liye woh bhi khullam khula… lekin ek bachcha nahi ho raha."

["Shameless girl. You do everything that too openly… yet you can't give us a child."]

Vamika stilled. The cloth slipped from her hands.

Manorama's gaze dragged over her, slow and cruel.

"Kahin tu baanjh toh nahi?"

["Are you barren?"]

The words hit like a slap.

Heat pricked Vamika’s eyes.

"Maa ji… aap aise kaise keh sakti hain…?"

["Mother… how can you say something like that?"]

Manorama’s smile was sharp, triumphant.

"Shaadi ko paanch mahine ho gaye. Abhi tak khush khabri nahi. Agar tujhe baanjh nahi kahungi toh kise kahungi?"

["It's been five months since the wedding. Still no good news. If I don’t call YOU barren, then who else?"]

Vamika’s throat tightened.

She knew why she wasn’t pregnant.

The pills—the ones she secretly bought from ved, every time she visited her.

She had been taking them every month for four months to avoid this very situation.

But now…

Now things were different.

Now there was softness.

Now there was warmth.

Now there was choice — mutual, slow, growing.

She inhaled, straightened her spine, and looked up.

"Maa ji… aap chinta mat kijiye. Main bohot jald khush khabri dungi aapko."

["Mother… don’t worry. I will give you the good news very soon."]

Manorama scoffed, flicking her hand dismissively.

"Bas zubaan hi chalti hai teri. Ja, ja ke kaam kar."

["All you know is how to talk. Go, get back to work."]

She walked away.

Vamika stood still for a moment.

The sting was real.

But for the first time, the pain did not break her.

Because she knew.

She had already stopped the pills.

Last night.

After her father’s words.

After seeing how Yudhveer holding her, defending her, choosing her.

A quiet, nervous hope warmed her chest.

She placed her hand gently on her abdomen.

Soon.

Very soon.

Meanwhile, in Yudhveer's mind—

His mother’s words shouldn’t have bothered him. But somewhere, somewhere, his mother’s words didn’t leave him. They lingered like an echo in a quiet room. Five months of marriage. Five months of shared mornings, shared meals, shared nights… and still no child. He never brought it up aloud. He couldn’t. The thought of mentioning it to Vamika felt wrong—like pressing weight onto shoulders that were already learning to adjust to a new life, a new family, a new husband. She was still so young. Barely settling. Barely breathing.

She has time, she is not even twenty, he always told himself. There’s no rush.

But then, his own age stood in front of him like a mirror. His early thirties. Not old, but not exactly young either. And quietly, without warning, a thought knocked at the back of his mind.

What if the issue isn’t her?

What if… it’s me?

The moment the thought appeared, he froze. The idea was small, almost invisible—but heavy, like a stone dropped in still water, rippling outward. He had never questioned himself before. Why would he? Men weren’t taught to. Men didn’t have to. It was always assumed that the woman carried the responsibility of fertility, of children, of continuity. But now… now he couldn’t ignore the possibility.

His mother’s tone.  His mother’s glances, soft but sharp, were pointed towards Vamika. And Vamika—so silent, so obediently gentle—never once defended herself. She simply lowered her eyes and continued fulfilling her duties.

The idea of her holding guilt for something she might not even be responsible for—

No. He couldn’t allow that.

He sat on the bed, the city sounds filtering in—horns, vendors, the faint clatter of life outside. And his thoughts were louder than all of it.

If something is wrong… I need to know.

I need to be sure.

If the problem lies in me, I will not let my mother blame her.

I will not let Chand fold into guilt she does not deserve.

He would not watch her shrink under the weight of unspoken accusations.

So he made up his mind.

He was in the city now. There were good doctors. No one needed to know. It would be quiet. Discreet. Just him.

He would get himself checked.

Not for pride. Not for fear.

But for her.

For the girl who had walked into this marriage with nothing to hold except silence and hope.

And for himself—because the doubt was there now, and if he didn’t face it, it would only grow.

After finishing his government work in the city, Yudhveer did not return to the lodge.

He stood outside a clinic for a moment — it was the 1980s, and no man at that time easily questioned his own masculinity.

But here he was, doing this for her.

He took a slow breath and walked in.

At the reception, he said quietly,

"Fertility test ke liye appointment chahiye."

["I need an appointment for a fertility test."]

The receptionist nodded and directed him to the doctor's room.

The doctor asked the basic medical questions — age, any illness, strain, work hours.

Then the doctor explained the procedure, simply and plainly,

"Hum semen analysis karenge."

["We will conduct a semen analysis."]

"Isse sperm count, movement aur quality pata chalegi."

["This will determine the sperm count, movement, and quality."]

Yudhveer listened, expression steady.

The doctor handed him a small form and pointed towards a private room.

"Sample yahan collect karna hoga."

["You will have to collect the sample here."]

For a moment, Yudhveer felt heat rise in his face — embarrassment.

In that era, men did not question themselves.

But he reminded himself why he was doing this.

If there is a problem, then I will accept it.

I can't let my mother blame her.

I can't let Chand suffer for something that could be mine.

He went into the room, followed the instructions, and returned the sample.

The staff labeled it and sent it to the lab.

The doctor said:

"Reports shaam tak mil jayengi."

["The reports will be ready by evening."]

Yudhveer only nodded.

He stepped out of the clinic, exhaling slowly.

Now all he could do was wait.

A few hours later, when the reports came, Yudhveer went back to the doctor’s office.

The doctor looked at the papers carefully, then smiled lightly.

"Reports bilkul theek hain."

["The reports are completely fine."]

"Aapke sperm count, motility sab normal hain."

["Your sperm count, motility — everything is normal."]

Yudhveer gave a slow nod. There was relief — but before he could speak, the doctor continued casually:

"Ho sakta hain problem aapki patni ke side se ho."

["The issue might be from your wife's side."]

Yudhveer’s jaw tightened.

"Nahi."

["No."]

His voice was calm — but firm.

"Usme koi problem nahi hain."

["There is nothing wrong with her."]

The doctor raised an eyebrow, but Yudhveer didn’t waver.

"Agar kuch hoga bhi," he said, "to hum dono milkar sambhaal lenge."

["Even if something does exist, we will handle it together."]

Then he thought to himself,

"Agar usme problem hui bhi to yeh baat main usey kabhi nahi bataunga."

["And even if she has problem, I will never let her know about this."]

If there is a baby in our fate, we will have one.

But I will not let Chand blame herself.

I will not let guilt eat her alive.

He folded the report carefully, and walked out of the clinic.

While Yudhveer was in the city, days in the haveli began to feel longer for Vamika.

She missed him.

Not just his presence — his warmth, his quiet glances, the way his hand would gently pull the blanket up to her shoulder at night, the way his voice softened only when he said her name.

The house felt colder without him.

Every morning, Manorama found new ways to remind her that she isn't pregnant yet.

Vamika kept her eyes lowered, her hands busy with household work.

She never talked back.

But when she was alone in their room, her silence broke.

She would sit at the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the dupatta he used to hold, the faint scent of him still there.

She whispered into the quiet:

"Kab aayenge aap…?"

["When will you come back…?"]

At night, she would lie on his side of the bed — because somehow, the mattress still held his warmth.

Her palm rested on her stomach, soft and hopeful.

He will come back soon.

When he holds me again… when we are close…

We will have a child.

A piece of him… a part of us…

Her heart fluttered with a tiny ache — both fear and longing.

She closed her eyes and imagined:

His hand sliding into hers.

His forehead resting against hers.

The way he said her name when no one could hear.

"Chand."

She smiled to herself, tears glimmering.

"Bas aa jao aap..."

["Just come back…"]

Because right now—even through the taunts, through the silence of the nights, she finally knew she wanted a future with him.

A child.

A family.

With him.

_________________

Finally, the day came when Yudhveer was to return to the village. There was a strange excitement in him—an eagerness to see Vamika again. He hadn’t realized when she had become the quiet center his mind kept circling back to. He drove through the dark highway, the sky moonless, the road stretching endlessly ahead.

It was late at night when it happened.

A sudden pop.

The jeep jolted.

The front tire had punctured.

He stopped the vehicle and climbed out into the cool, eerie silence. The road was empty, only insects humming in the darkness. He bent down to check the tire.

And in that exact second—something looped around his neck from behind. A duppata—tight, rough, pulling him backward. The force knocked the breath out of him.

A voice snarled close to his ear:

“Tune mera parivaar ko khatam kiya hai, main tujhe nahi chhodunga.”

["You destroyed my family. I will not spare you."]

Yudhveer couldn’t see him—only the pressure, the choking pull, the desperate instinct to breathe. He clawed at the fabric, trying to break free, but the man dragged him, slamming him face-first against the jeep’s hood.

Metal. Dust. His heartbeat roaring.

The man fisted his hair, yanking his head back, and brought a dagger close—its cold edge catching the headlight’s pale glow.

“Tune mere parivaar walon ko jalaya hai, ab tera jala hua shaav tere parivaar walon ko main bhejunga.”

["You burned my family alive. Now I will send your burnt corpse to your family."]

Yudhveer’s throat burned as he tried to speak, to see, to recognize.

But the man wasn’t done.

His voice was poison now.

“Sirf tujhe nahi… teri us randi behen ke bete ko bhi maar dunga.”

["Not just you… I’ll kill the son of that whore of a sister of yours."]

The words sank like ice.

“Tune uske liye mere parivaar ko maara tha na? Ab dekh tu.”

["You killed my family for him, didn’t you? Now watch."]

“Yagya hi hai na uss randi ki aakhri nishani?”

["Yagya is that whore's last memory, isn’t he?"]

The dagger pressed closer.

“Usey bhi khatam kar dunga… phir tere biwi ko khatam karunga.”

["I’ll finish him too… and then I’ll finish to your wife."]

A sickening pause.

A breath.

A smile he could feel even without seeing.

“Lekin usse pehle… usey zara chakh ke dekhunga.”

["But before that… I’ll taste her first."]

Something broke inside Yudhveer.

Not rage.

Not fear.

Something older.

Something territorial.

Something feral.

He planted his palms on the jeep’s hood—

and pushed.

With his whole body.

With every tendon, every frantic breath, every burning nerve.

The attacker stumbled backward.

The dupatta loosened.

Air rushed into Yudhveer’s lungs like fire.

The moment Yudhveer tore himself free, he spun around—chest rising and falling, fists clenched, ready to tear into whoever dared speak Vamika and Yagya’s name like that.

For a second, in the dim headlights, he couldn’t recognize the man.

He was taller now. Older. Shoulders broader. Eyes hollowed by rage.

But then—

something familiar in the jawline

the stance

the trembling breath.

And the recognition hit him like a blow.

It was his sister’s brother-in-law.

The younger brother of her husband.

The one who had been abroad for studies.

The one Yudhveer had spared… thinking he was innocent.

A bitter, awful irony.

“Tu…”

["You…"] Yudhveer’s voice cracked—not with fear, but disbelief.

The man snarled back:

“Haan, main. Aur aaj tu mere haathon marega.”

["Yes, me. And today, you'll die by my hands."]

He lunged again.

This time Yudhveer was ready.

He caught the man’s wrist mid-swing and slammed him against the jeep. The man’s back hit metal with a sickening thud. Yudhveer’s fists landed—jaw, ribs, gut—raw, brutal, fueled by fury and betrayal.

The man spit blood and laughed—

a wild, broken laugh.

“Tune bina sach jaane mere parivaar ko jala diya!”

["You burned my entire family without even knowing the truth!"]

Yudhveer grabbed him by the collar, shaking him.

“Sach mujhe pata tha.”

["I did know the truth."]

His voice dropped, thick with pain that never healed.

“Tere gharwalon meri behen ko zinda jala diya tha.”

["Your family burned my sister alive."]

The man pushed him off, rage flaring just as violently.

“Jhooth! Wo haadsa tha! Accident!”

["Lies! It was an accident!"]

He shoved Yudhveer back and swung the dagger again. Yudhveer dodged, grabbed his arm, twisted—and the dagger clattered to the road. They fell into the dirt, grappling, kicking, fists against bone, breath against breath. The night echoed with the sound of impact, of grunts, of gravel scraping skin.

Yudhveer pinned him, voice rough:

“Haadsa hota to tumlogo ne madad kyu nahi kiya jab wo chilla rahi thi,”

["If it was an accident, why didn't you help her when she was screaming for help?"]

His voice broke, just once.

“Meri behen chilla rahi thi… aur tumhare ghar waale dekhte rahe.”

["She was screaming… and your family just watched."]

The man’s eyes burned—even through the blood and dust.

“Mere parivaar ko tune maara!”

["You killed my family!"]

He snatched the dagger back before Yudhveer could stop him.

The blade flashed.

For a moment—

everything slowed.

If Yudhveer didn’t act now—

This man would kill him.

And then go to Yagya.

And then Vamika.

And he had promised himself—

he would let no one touch them.

The man lunged.

Yudhveer’s hand shot forward—fast, instinctive, desperate.

He wrenched the dagger from his grip—

and in the same motion—

the blade drove straight into the man’s chest.

Not a slash.

Not a hesitation.

A single, direct thrust to the heart.

The man’s breath hitched.

His eyes widened—rage, shock, betrayal—all collapsing into silence.

He collapsed against Yudhveer, body heavy, lifeless,

and slid down to the dirt.

Yudhveer stood there—

breathing hard—

chest shaking.

The dagger still in his hand.

The white kurta he had worn for the journey

was now soaked—

blotched in deep, spreading red

that climbed like fire.

The night was quiet again.

Too quiet.

And Yudhveer—

had no time to break.

No time to grieve.

Because now fate had changed direction.

And something dark

was coming

for Vamika.

He stood there, chest rising and falling, staring at the lifeless body at his feet.

But that was not what his eyes saw.

In his mind —

another body lay there.

His sister.

Not in flames.

Not screaming.

But how he saw her after.

Wrapped in a white sheet.

Skin charred.

Hair burned away.

The bangles she once loved — melted into her flesh.

His breath shook.

He had not heard her final scream.

He had not witnessed her last breath.

He had only seen what was left of her.

And the memory struck him now like a blade:

Her small hands holding his when they were children,

running barefoot to the river

laughing over stolen mangoes.

The way she would hide behind him when she was scared.

The way she cried into his shoulder the night before her bidai, saying:

“Bhaiya, dhyan rakhna apna.”

["Brother, take care of yourself."]

How her eyes had shone with dreams when she spoke of her new life.

How she blushed telling him about her first pregnancy.

How she had held her newborn baby — Yagya — her smile gentle, exhausted, proud.

And now—

she was gone.

All those years of laughter, closeness, childhood secrets—

all of it reduced to ashes.

He blinked.

His vision blurred.

The road was silent.

But inside him—

every memory screamed.

He whispered, voice cracking:

“ chali gayi…”

["You left…"]

His throat tightened painfully.

“Apni aakhri nishaani ko chhod ke.”

["Leaving your only trace behind."]

Yagya.

Her son.

Her heart.

Her legacy.

The only piece of her still living in this world.

His entire world.

And now—

That world was threatened.

And not just Yagya.

Vamika.

The woman who said so little but had become everything in the quiet.

The woman who slept beside him, soft and unguarded.

The only person whose breathing could calm him when he didn’t know he needed calming.

The thought of someone touching her—

Harming her—

Defiling her—

The rage was not hot.

It was cold.

Sharp.

Unforgiving.

Grief.

Rage.

Love.

Regret.

Fear.

All of it collided at once.

He didn’t even realize when tears hit the dust.

He didn’t realize his nails were digging into his own palms.

He didn’t realize his white kurta was drenched in blood — his or the dead man's — he didn’t know.

He only knew one thing:

No one would touch his family.

Not now.

Not ever.

His voice trembled as he spoke into the empty night — not a scream, not a whisper — just a vow:

“Mere zinda rehte… koi unhe haath tak nahi laga sakta.”

["As long as I am alive… no one can even lay a hand on them."]

He got into the jeep.

The blood on his hands smeared the steering wheel.

He didn’t wipe it.

His jaw clenched.

His eyes were burning.

He drove.

He drove like a man who had lost once, and would never lose again.

On his way back, Yudhveer had driven in silence — the road empty, the night cold.

His mind wouldn’t stop — the attack, the blood, his sister — everything crashing in his chest at once.

So he opened the bottle.

One sip to steady his hands.

Another to quiet the anger.

Then another.

And another.

By the time he reached home, the bottle was empty.

Not because he wanted to drink —

but because feeling was worse than being numb.

He stepped inside with a quiet body… and a storming mind.

On the other hand, no one knew he was returning tonight.

Yudhveer had imagined it a little — entering quietly, pushing the bedroom door open… maybe seeing Vamika half-asleep, her eyes softening when she saw him. A small, quiet surprise.

It was late.

The house lay silent under the weight of the night — everyone asleep behind closed doors.

Except her.

She was sitting on their bed — back against the headboard, hair loose, a soft shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

She had tried to sleep.

But something in her chest felt tight, wrong, restless.

Her fingers absently twisted the corner of her shawl.

"Pata nahi kyun… dil mein kaisi ghabrahat si ho rahi hai."

["I don’t know why… my heart feels uneasy."]

The ticking of the table clock beside her was the only sound filling the room.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to breathe —

And then the door latch clicked.

Her eyes snapped open.

The bedroom door pushed open slowly.

Yudhveer stepped inside.

Not loud.

Not hurried.

Just… heavy.

His steps were uneven, tired — as if each one dragged the memories of the night behind it.

His kurta was mostly white — but the stains on it had dried into dark patches.

His hands… smeared.

His expression blank — almost numb, as if he had not yet returned from wherever his mind had gone.

Vamika’s breath caught.

She didn’t stand.

She didn’t move.

She only stared — wide-eyed — trying to understand what she was seeing.4

He lifted his eyes — and saw her.

The pale lamplight from the bedside fell on her face — soft, startled, unguarded.

For a heartbeat — everything stilled.

Her mouth parted — her voice small, confused, trembling:

"Y-yeh…?" ["Th-this....?"]

But the words didn’t come fully.

Because the blood said enough.

And the room — once quiet — now felt suffocatingly loud with everything unspoken between them.

The corridor light was dim, but it was enough for her eyes to fall on the blood.

Her breath stopped.

For a second she couldn’t even speak.

Then, the words burst out of her, trembling:

"Y-yeh… yeh khoon…?"

["T-this… this blood…?"]

"Yeh khoon kaise laga?"

['How did you get this blood?"]

He didn’t answer.

He just stood there — silent, breathing hard, his jaw tight.

That silence terrified her more than anything.

She walked closer — almost stumbling as panic rose fast in her chest.

"Aap theek toh hain? Aapko kuch hua toh nahi?"

["Are you okay? Are you hurt?"]

Her voice trembled — too fast, too desperate.

And just like that — his mind dragged him back

— to the hands on his throat

— to the dagger

— to the threats

— “Yagya ko bhi maar dunga… phir teri biwi ko bhi.”

He heard that voice again.

The rage.

The fear.

The helplessness.

And he snapped.

"Chup."

["Quiet."]

His voice was sharp — cutting through her panic.

"Bilkul chup."

["Just be silent."]

Vamika flinched, her steps stopping immediately.

But her eyes moved to his kurta again — to the dark stains.

She swallowed, her voice small, frightened:

"Aapke... aapke kurte pe yeh khoon kaisa? Kiska khoon hai? Aap... aap theek hain na?"

["This blood on your kurta… whose blood is it? Are you alright?"]

The questions kept coming, so did the anger inside him.

Not anger at her.

Anger at himself.

For not saving his sister.

For letting things reach this point.

For almost losing everything—again.

He stood frozen — zoned out, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

Vamika stepped closer — voice shaking but determined — she grabbed his forearm.

"Bataiye... batate kyun nahi hain? Yeh khoon kiska hai?"

["Tell me… why won’t you tell me? Whose blood is this?"]

That dragged him back into the present.

And he erupted.

He grabbed her wrist — hard — yanking it away.

His hand moved to her throat almost instinctively, fingers closing around it.

Not enough to stop her breathing —

just enough to control.

Dominate.

Silence.

Her breath hitched — eyes widening in shock.

"Ab tu mujhse sawaal karegi?"

["Now you will question me?"]

His grip tightened — her back hit the wall behind her.

"Do takke ki aurat!"

["Worthless woman!"]

Her hands went up to his wrist, trembling, trying to loosen the hold — not to escape — just to breathe.

"Aukaat nahi teri mujhse sawaal karne ki, samjhi?"

["You have no right to question me. Understood?"]

His face was close — breath uneven — eyes wild, overflowing with rage that had nothing to do with her.

She tried to speak — her voice barely a whisper:

"Aap—" ["You-"]

He pressed harder for a second.

Not to kill.

Just to remind her:

He holds power.

"Tu hoti kaun hai mujhse sawaal puchne wali?"

["Who are you to question me?"]

Then — his voice turned sharper, crueler:

"Mere maamlo mein mat ghuss. Tu uske laayak nahi hai. Tu bus mere neeche letne layak hain, Samjhi?"

["Don’t interfere in my matters. You’re not worthy of it. You're just here to lay under me. Got it?"]

"Do din pyaar kya dikha diya, apni jagah bhool gayi?"

["Just because I showed a little affection for two days, you forgot your place?"]

Her lower lip trembled — tears pricked but still did not fall.

He leaned closer — voice cold and cutting:

"Bhool mat — yeh shaadi pyaar ki nahi hai."

["Don’t forget — this marriage wasn’t built on love."]

"Yeh rishta hisaab ka hai."

["This relationship is just repayment."]

"Karz chukaya nahi gaya tere baap se to uski beti le li maine."

["A debt is settled with the father… by taking the daughter."]

With that, he shoved her back — not enough to injure, but enough to make her stumble and catch herself against the table.

Her throat burned.

The imprint of his fingers reddened on her skin.

He didn’t look back.

His voice was cold as steel:

"Aage se mujhse sawaal puchne ki zurrat bhi mat karna."

["Don’t ever dare to question me again."]

He walked into the washroom and slammed the door shut.

Vamika didn’t cry.

Not even then.

She just stood there, one hand lightly touching her bruised throat, the other hanging limp at her side.

It sank in — painfully, slowly:

She had been foolish to think anything was changing.

Whatever softness she thought she saw in him —

was nothing but her own hope reflecting back at her.

To him —

she was still just a debt repaid.

A possession.

Collateral.

Her heartbeat echoed in the cold quiet room.

The small, fragile trust she was starting to build…shattered.

Her mind went blank for a moment.

Then everything hit her at once.

The sight of him—drunk.

The blood on his clothes.

His harsh words.

His hands on her throat.

Her heart felt like it had been crushed.

Something inside her broke that night.

Her thoughts turned into a cold, merciless whisper in her own head:

“You thought of giving this man a chance?”

“You thought of having children with him?”

“You thought he truly loves you?”

The voice laughed. Mocked. Tore her apart.

Her chest tightened as she sank onto the floor, tears falling soundlessly.

She remembered the pills.

The decision she took days ago.

The hope she allowed herself to feel.

And then—she reversed it.

She wiped her tears with shaking hands, whispering to herself, voice cracking:

"I don't want another soul to suffer."

"I can't bring a child. Not now. Not ever."

Her voice trembled, but her resolve did not.

"And if I have to suffer… if people call me baanj—I will listen."

"But I will not let my child suffer."

That night, the feeling she had been holding onto… died quietly inside her.

Not with a scream.

But with acceptance.

The bathroom door opened.

Yudhveer stepped out—shirtless, wearing only a dhoti, his hair dripping wet. Droplets slid down his shoulders, the dim light catching the sharp lines of his jaw. He didn’t look at her. Not even once.

He walked straight to the bed and lay down.

For a moment, he tried to sleep… but something felt off.

He reached out his hand—

There was no warmth beside him.

His eyes opened.

He looked around the room—

And found her.

Vamika, sitting on the floor in the corner. Knees to her chest. Silent. Barely breathing.

His voice came out low and commanding:

"Idhar aa."

["Come here."]

Vamika heard him.

But her body wouldn’t move.

She couldn’t go near him.

Not after tonight.

He spoke again, harsher this time:

"Sunai nahi deta? Idhar aa."

["Did you not hear me? Come here."]

Still, she didn’t move.

His jaw tightened.

He clicked his tongue in irritation and got up from the bed.

He walked to her, grabbed her wrist hard, and pulled her up.

Vamika stumbled as he dragged her back to the bed.

He laid her down with force—not hurting her, just asserting control.

And then, his voice—cold, firm, the same voice that used to make her feel safe once:

"Kartavya mat bhool apna."

["Do not forget your duty."]

Vamika’s entire body trembled.

Her fingers curled into the bedsheet to stop herself from shaking.

Yudhveer didn’t speak further.

He simply lay beside her…

Wrapped his arms around her…

Held her close like she was the only thing that gave him peace.

His breathing slowed.

He slept.

Peaceful.

Content.

Resting in the warmth he took for granted.

And Vamika?

Her eyes stayed open.

Silent tears soaked the pillow.

He found his peace in her embrace.

While she…

She had just lost hers.