The next day, Ishani woke with a quiet resolve.
She didn’t speak to Virat at breakfast—didn’t even look at him properly. The sting of last night’s words still lingered like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing. But beneath the anger was something softer, something stubborn: she wanted to show him she could be more than the forced wife he kept at arm’s length. More than a partner. More than a secret he guarded.

So she went into the kitchen early, packed his favorite lunch herself—soft parathas stuffed with aloo, a small box of dahi, mango pickle on the side, and a slice of the gajar ka halwa she knew he secretly liked. She tied the tiffin carefully with a cloth, added a steel glass of buttermilk, and slipped it into a small jute bag.