The next morning dawned soft and hazy over Delhi, sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains of their shared bedroom like hesitant fingers. Ishani stirred awake, her body still heavy with the remnants of restless sleep and the emotional storm of last night. She blinked against the light, her gaze immediately seeking him out—Virat, already dressed in his crisp office attire: dark trousers hugging his lean hips, a fitted shirt buttoned halfway, revealing the strong column of his throat. He was fastening his cufflinks at the mirror, movements precise, detached.

Her eyes drifted to the space beside her on the bed—the sheets pristine, untouched, not a single wrinkle or indentation to suggest he'd slept there. Again. The realization twisted something sharp inside her chest—had he crashed on the sofa? Worked through the night? Or simply avoided her like a plague?