The morning's charged moment on the balcony lingered like smoke in Ishani's veins—the near-kiss, his towel-clad body pressed to her damp one, cock throbbing hot against her core through thin barriers, her slickness soaking her panties in traitorous flood. Flushed cheeks burned as she retreated inside, heart pounding with the illicit want that betrayal couldn't fully douse. But yesterday's blood flashed: his split knuckles she'd bandaged with trembling care, the metallic tang on his skin as she cleaned his lip, his evasive eyes when she'd asked. Lies again.

Virat stood in the living room, phone to his ear—voice low and clipped, the mafia edge seeping through in terse commands. She waited in the doorway, arms crossed under her breasts, the loose kurta doing little to hide their tender swell from pregnancy's subtle bloom. Call ended; he turned, smile softening for her—until her stern gaze pinned him.