Five days had blurred into a haze of isolation and ache for Ishani, the paying-guest room a temporary prison of faded posters and borrowed scents, her body a battlefield of betrayal and unspoken longing. Virat's attempts pierced the walls like relentless rain: calls she silenced with trembling fingers, messages unread until her thumb hovered too long over "I miss you, jaan—please"; personal visits where she'd slam doors and windows in his face, heart splintering at the raw plea in his obsidian eyes, the way his massive frame slumped against the frame, whispering "Come home" through the wood. At 23, she was adrift—nights curling fetal under thin sheets, hand pressing her subtly swelling belly without knowing why, thighs slicking with dreams of his cock stretching her, filling her with the heat of his release, only to wake sobbing at the gun's echo, the blood on his hands. My Vee... killer. The mangalsutra lay hidden in her bag, sindoor scrubbed away, chooda removed like shedding skin—but doubt gnawed: Does he miss me? Or the warmth I gave him?