A month had crawled by since Virat's tragic departure, each day in the Mumbai penthouse a hollow echo of the life Ishani once knew, the sprawling glass walls now prisons reflecting her empty gaze back at her like mocking mirrors. At 24, she was a ghost wandering the halls she once filled with laughter and moans, her pregnancy at five months a bittersweet anchor—the subtle swell of her belly a constant reminder of the love they'd created, but also the loss that had ripped it apart. The twins—revealed by the doctor in a sterile clinic room days after the funeral, his voice clinical yet sympathetic: "Mrs. Singh, you're expecting twins... a boy and a girl, healthy so far, but take care of your stress"—were her only reason to breathe, to eat, to exist. Babies... our babies... Vee's legacy, she'd thought then, hand pressing the swell as tears fell silent, the doctor's words crashing like waves over her numb soul: Due to high stress and emotional trauma, monitor closely. But happiness? Snatched away with him, the man who'd filled her womb with life in passionate nights of possession, his cock thrusting deep and raw, hot spurts claiming her fully—now gone, leaving her alone with the echoes.