The birth of the twins came premature in the eighth month, a storm of stress and grief forcing Ishani's body into early labor, the Mumbai hospital's sterile lights harsh against her tear-streaked face as contractions gripped her like Virat's possessive hands once had, her screams echoing the corridors not from pleasure but pain, body wracked with the violence of bringing life into a world that had stolen its father. At 24, her pregnancy had been a beacon of hope amid loss—the twins, Soha and Arth, miracles conceived in nights of raw passion where Virat's cock had plunged deep, stretching her walls in burning fullness, hot spurts filling her womb as she moaned "Vee... more," his groans vibrating through her as he claimed her fully, the seed taking root in their steamy union. But now, alone in the delivery room, Maa holding her hand, Julia Aunty whispering prayers, Dhairya pacing outside, Ishani's mind drifted to subconscious visions: him there, her Vee, stroking her head in the haze, kissing her forehead lingering, beard rasping her skin in sensual contrast that sent phantom heat to her core even in delirium, his silhouette tall and protective, hand on her belly as if blessing the babies. "Vee..." she'd whispered in the fog, reaching for him, but he faded, a cruel hallucination born of love's desperate grasp.