The nights had become unbearable for Ishani.

Virat’s distance wasn’t loud anger or cold indifference—it was worse. It was absence. He existed in the same house, breathed the same air, yet he was gone from her. No more late-night whispers, no more possessive hands pulling her close in sleep, no more “Mrs. Rawat” growled against her neck like a claim. The guest room door stayed closed. Their bedroom felt like a mausoleum.