The days that followed blurred into a quiet, intoxicating rhythm for Ishani and Virat.

Their nights had become something sacred—intense, consuming, almost reverent. Every touch carried the weight of everything they had survived: the forced marriage, the trauma, the slow unraveling of secrets, and now this fragile, fierce thing blooming between them. Virat would come home late some evenings—exhausted from meetings, shoulders tight—only to find Ishani waiting in soft cotton sarees or silk nighties, hair loose, eyes shy but inviting. He would pull her into his arms without a word, lips finding her neck, hands sliding beneath fabric to map every inch of skin he had already claimed a hundred times. She would melt—always melt—moaning his name like a prayer while he worshipped her with mouth and fingers and body until both were trembling, spent, tangled in sheets and each other.