The revelation of the PG "leakage" unfolded in subtle, stinging fragments over the following days, pieces Ishani pieced together like shards of a broken mirror reflecting Virat's possessive love. A casual call from a friend—"Some rich guy paid the workers extra to drag out the repairs, make it unlivable for a bit"—the timing too perfect, the sudden "flood" too convenient after her flight from the penthouse. Virat's hand, of course—orchestrated in shadows, money changing hands discreetly to force her back under his roof, into his arms, his bed, his control. He never confessed, but the knowledge burned in her gut, a hot, twisted coil of resentment and illicit thrill: He couldn't let me go... paid to chain me here, because I'm his. The thought sent unwelcome heat flooding her core, thighs clenching as she imagined him in some dimly lit meeting, voice low and commanding, handing envelopes thick with cash, eyes dark with the same possessiveness that made his cock throb when he pinned her down, stretching her walls in relentless possession. At 23, pregnancy hormones amplified everything—the tenderness in her swelling breasts making them heavy, nipples hypersensitive to the brush of fabric, a constant low throb between her legs that his mere presence ignited, her body craving the man her mind warred against.