Ishani and Virat lived the happiest life in California, the villa a sun-drenched haven of ocean breezes and private gardens, far from Mumbai's shadows where rivals whispered threats Virat monitored through encrypted lines, his men ensuring no echo reached their bliss. At 24, seven months pregnant, Ishani was a vision of maternal sensuality—curves amplified to exquisite fullness, breasts heavy and tender, nipples perpetually sensitive and darkened, aching for his mouth's suck even in idle moments; the pronounced swell of her belly a warm, rounded prominence that shifted with every breath, her hand drifting there instinctive, fingers tracing the curve in slow, sensual circles that sent shivers racing down her spine to her clit, her pussy clenching wet with the illicit thrill of carrying his child, the forbidden rush of his seed taking root during those nights he'd fucked her raw, stretching her walls in burning possession, hot spurts filling her womb in creamy waves that left her dripping and marked as his. She was happy—blissful in their routine, the pregnancy glow making her skin radiant, every glance from Virat a spark that ignited her core, but sometimes his mafia life tensed her like a storm cloud on the horizon—zoning out mid-conversation, eyes distant as fear gripped, her body tensing, breasts heaving with ragged breaths, nipples peaking hard against her one-piece in response to the adrenaline, core throbbing wet with anxiety's twisted arousal, thighs pressing together to ease the throb as memories of the gun flashed, blood blooming on his shoulder in nightmares that left her slick with sweat and need.