The hospital corridor stretched like an endless vein of cold fluorescence, the antiseptic scent sharp and invasive, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood that clung to the air from emergency rooms beyond. Dhairya drove with grim focus, Julia Aunty in the front seat murmuring prayers, while Ishani sat in the back, body rigid yet trembling, the loose kurta she'd changed into—a soft ivory cotton that draped her pregnancy-swollen curves like a lover's whisper—clinging damp to her skin from tears and sweat. At 23, the revelation of her condition still fresh, every jolt of the car sent waves of sensation through her: breasts heavier and tender, nipples hypersensitive against the fabric's gentle rasp, the subtle roundness of her belly pressing the kurta's hem, a secret life fluttering unknown within, her core throbbing with a mix of fear and the illicit heat that Virat's mere existence stirred, even now—memories of his cock buried deep, stretching her walls in rhythmic possession, hot spurts filling her womb the nights he'd claimed her fully.