The weeks following Virat's discharge wove a delicate tapestry of reclaimed intimacy in the penthouse, Ishani's behavior shifting back to the pre-revelation days—loving, clingy, her body a constant orbit around his, craving his touch like air even as the betrayal's shadow lingered unspoken. At 23, pregnancy had transformed her into a vessel of heightened sensuality: breasts fuller and heavier, nipples perpetually sensitive and pebbled, brushing fabric in constant erotic friction that kept her core in a low, throbbing simmer; the subtle swell of her belly a warm, secret curve that made her hand drift there instinctively, fingers tracing the skin in slow circles that sent shivers to her clit, slickness gathering between her thighs at the mere thought of his seed taking root, his cock pulsing deep inside her during those nights of possession. She avoided direct penetration—fear whispering that it might harm their blooming world, the baby a fragile miracle she guarded fiercely—but her clinginess turned every moment into foreplay, her body pressing his in needy surrender, lips seeking his in hungry kisses, hands roaming his torso to feel the dragon tattoo flex under her palms, nails scraping lightly to draw his groans.