Life in California unfolded like a sun-drenched dream wrapped in the velvet haze of their reclaimed passion, the sprawling villa in Malibu a sanctuary of ocean views and private gardens, far from Mumbai's shadows. Ishani, now seven months pregnant, embraced the maternal glow in flowing one-pieces—soft, stretchy fabrics that draped her curves like a lover's whisper, the lilac material hugging her fuller breasts in a low scoop neckline, exposing the creamy swells where the mangalsutra nestled like a forbidden pendant, beads black and gleaming between the heaving globes, nipples often pebbled and faintly outlined through the thin cloth from the cool sea breeze or her constant arousal, the dress cinching her waist just above the pronounced swell of her belly, the roundness a warm, erotic curve that made her hand linger there, fingers tracing the skin through fabric in slow, sensual circles that sent shivers racing to her clit, her pussy clenching wet with the illicit thrill of carrying his child, the hem skimming mid-thigh to tease the golden expanse of her legs, ass flexing under the material with each step, chooda replaced by delicate kadas embedded with precious stones—sapphire for calm, emerald for hope, topaz for joy, ruby for passion, diamond for strength, amethyst for peace—shining on her wrists like marks of his endless gifts, heavy earrings swaying against her neck in sensual tickle with every movement. Virat, 42 and thriving in exile, his "noble" franchises funding their bliss, had shed the mafia's weight like old skin, his days now devoted to her and the baby, body honed in morning swims, dragon tattoo rippling under tanned skin as he emerged from the pool, water droplets tracing the V of his pelvis down to the low-slung trunks that outlined his thick cock, heavy and semi-hard from thoughts of her.