Hum toot kar bhi jud gaye,

aur khud ko kho kar ek ho gaye…

Waqt badla, kahani badli—

par ek sach nahi badla—

tum mere the…

aur hamesha rahoge.

One Year Later

They say pain is temporary.

That love conquers all.

That hope is enough to survive.

That faith can move mountains.

But they're wrong.

Pain isn't temporary. It lingers. It carves itself into your bones, rewrites your DNA, becomes part of who you are. It doesn't disappear—it just teaches you how to carry it without breaking.

Love doesn't conquer all. It simply makes the battle worth fighting. It gives you a reason to bleed, to sacrifice, to stand when everything inside you screams to fall. Love doesn't erase the scars—it just makes you brave enough to show them.

Hope isn't enough to survive. Hope is the whisper in the dark that keeps you crawling forward when your legs give out. But survival? That requires more than whispers. It requires clawing, screaming, refusing to let the void swallow you whole.

And faith?

Faith doesn't move mountains.

You do.

With bleeding hands. With shattered knees. With a heart that's been torn apart and stitched back together so many times you've lost count.

Faith just makes you believe the climb is worth it.

One year ago, they were broken.

Riddhimaan—a man who woke from a coma with fragments of a life he couldn't remember and a woman he couldn't forget.

Krishti—a girl stolen at birth, raised in the wrong family, haunted by a past she never knew existed.

One year ago, they were enemies.

Bound by blood feuds older than their lifetimes. Torn apart by secrets, lies, and the ghosts of people who died before they were born.

One year ago, they were lost.

Searching for answers in the void. Chasing shadows. Bleeding in the dark.

But today?

Today, they stand together.

Not because the pain disappeared.

Not because the past was erased.

Not because forgiveness came easy.

But because they chose each other.

Every single day.

Even when it hurt.

Even when it felt impossible.

Even when the world screamed at them to walk away.

This is what it means to be human.

To be shattered and still find a way to stand.

To lose everything and still choose to hope.

To carry wounds that will never fully heal—and still reach out your hand to someone else drowning in their own darkness.

To love not because it's easy, but because it's the only thing that makes the pain bearable.

Riddhimaan learned that some memories don't need to be clear to be real.

That the woman who saved him in the void wasn't a hallucination or a ghost—she was the anchor that kept him tethered to life when his mind had already surrendered.

Krishti learned that identity isn't about bloodline or birthright.

That she wasn't defined by the family who stole her or the one she lost—she was defined by the choices she made, the people she protected, the love she fought for.

Together, they learned that survival isn't about being unbreakable.

It's about breaking—and choosing to rebuild.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the cracks become part of the foundation.

One year later, the war isn't over.

Enemies still circle. Deepti Thakur Shekhawati's shadow still haunts the edges of their world. Blood feuds don't end with weddings and vows.

But they're no longer afraid.

Because they've already survived the worst.

The coma. The void. The separation. The lies. The betrayal.

They've already lost each other once.

And they clawed their way back.

So whatever comes next?

They'll face it together.

Not as victims.

Not as survivors.

But as warriors who've learned that the greatest battles aren't fought with guns and power.

They're fought with love.

With hope.

With the refusal to let the darkness win.

And if you take anything from their story, let it be this:

Life will break you.

It will tear you apart, throw you into the void, and leave you gasping for air in the wreckage.

But you are not your pain.

You are not your trauma.

You are not the worst thing that ever happened to you.

You are the choice you make in the aftermath.

To stand or to fall.

To fight or to surrender.

To close your heart—or to love anyway, even when it terrifies you.

You are the sum of every time you chose to get back up.

Every time you whispered "one more day" when giving up felt easier.

Every time you reached for someone's hand in the dark—even when your own hands were shaking.

Riddhimaan and Krishti's story isn't a fairytale.

It's messy. It's brutal. It's scarred.

But it's real.

And it's theirs.

And one year later, as they stand on the balcony of their home, watching the city lights flicker like stars fallen to earth, they know one truth above all else,

They didn't just survive the storm.

They became it.

Together.

And that—

that is everything.

One year had passed, and everything had changed.

Nivaan got married to Sara in a quiet, intimate ceremony. When Sara finally revealed her true identity to him, the shock that should have come never arrived. Instead, Nivaan felt only pride — fierce, protective pride — mixed with a deep, lingering fear. He had promised her father-in-law that he would protect and cherish her forever, no matter what shadows from her past tried to return.

Arijit married Kartika Saxena in secret. The woman had been targeted relentlessly, and Arijit could no longer watch the love of his life live in fear. Niharika and Sarvajit stood by their son, welcoming Kartika into the family like a son who had lost everything but gained a new home. He had found safety, love, and a family that would burn the world for him.

Athvik married Akansha Agnihotri — a forced marriage arranged by powerful families. He respected her boundaries strictly, never crossing the line she had drawn. Their relationship was still growing, built on patience and quiet understanding.

Manvik married happily this year in April and whisked his wife away for a long honeymoon, disappearing into the mountains where only laughter and love existed for a while.

Arshan married Yasmin and built a blessed life with her. Both continued working side by side — he as the boss, she as his sharp lieutenant in the underworld. Their partnership was fierce, equal, and unbreakable.

Riddhimaan had thrown himself fully into his role as the leader of Ironcrown and Phantom. He oversaw shipments of guns to distant worlds, navigated new submerged routes through the underworld, and secured new business allies while carefully monitoring government policies. His focus was razor-sharp, his control absolute.

A few months ago, the hidden spy — the same tactician who had once given Dante a mysterious pendrive — resurfaced. He caused minor damage to Anirudh’s property, igniting a fire of rage in Anirudh that only his wife could calm.

The pendrive contained a map with confusing routes that left the three most dangerous mafia leaders — Anirudh, Riddhimaan, and Dante — puzzled. Despite their combined power, the message remained unclear. Dante had taken the pendrive to analyze it further.

On the other side, things with Dante were growing worse. His wife’s situation had pushed him to the edge of his control. In a moment of raw rage, he had locked her in the old basement again. But she had escaped.

When she emerged, the familiar members and bodyguards stood in shock and disbelief. Dante’s face hardened — somewhere between difficult pain and reluctant happiness.

What could one say?

Life had settled into a new rhythm for Krishti.

She had taken up a position as a Professor at Jaipur University — teaching literature and creative writing, a role that suited her quiet passion and sharp mind. The campus, with its sprawling lawns and old banyan trees, had become a second home. Students respected her calm authority and the way she made even dry texts come alive with emotion.

Balancing marriage and work wasn’t easy, but Krishti managed it with grace. Mornings were for Riddhimaan — soft kisses, shared coffee, and the quiet intimacy that grounded her. Evenings were often for him too, but she made sure her lectures were prepared, her papers graded, and her students supported. She had learned to compartmentalize without losing herself. Riddhimaan, for his part, never made her choose. He supported her career fiercely, even if it meant late nights when she stayed back for student consultations or departmental meetings.

Her friends — Priyanka and Drishti — had been shocked when they learned Krishti had married Riddhimaan Singh Ranawat.

They had flown into Jaipur unannounced one weekend, demanding answers. The moment they stepped into the Ranawat mansion, their jaws dropped. The grandeur, the security, the sheer power radiating from the walls — it was nothing like the simple life they had imagined for their friend.

But the biggest shock came when Krishti learned about their lives.

Priyanka had married under her father’s arrangement. Her husband, Kabir, was the Secretary of Ironcrown — Riddhimaan’s company. He treated her like a princess — gentle, respectful, and deeply in love. Priyanka glowed when she spoke about him. Their marriage was steady, warm, and full of quiet happiness. The connection between the two families had only strengthened the bond.

Drishti’s story, however, was chaos wrapped in heartbreak.

She had fallen madly in love with Nikhil — Priyanka’s cousin brother. When Priyanka casually mentioned that Nikhil was getting married, something in Drishti snapped. Possessed by love and desperation, she had, with the help of a naughty colleague, kidnapped Nikhil on the very day of his wedding.

Nikhil had been stunned. He tried to reason with her, insulted her, mocked her feelings. Drishti, sensitive and already fragile, had broken down and kept her distance. She tried to explain, to fix things, but Nikhil shrugged it off. His family faced humiliation in front of the bride’s side. Drishti somehow managed to settle the mess — but at a terrible cost.

Her own family disowned her for the scandal. Nikhil left for the USA to focus on his work, making it clear he had no feelings for her. Drishti was left with nothing but an empty heart and the mangalsutra she still wore every day — a symbol of a love that had never been reciprocated.

She buried herself in her Professor job, drowning the endless pain in lectures and research. Priyanka was her only constant support.

Krishti listened to Drishti’s story with a heavy heart. She understood the madness of love — how it could make someone do things they never thought possible. Drishti had acted out of desperation, not malice. Nikhil could have rejected her softly, kindly. Instead, he had mocked and insulted her in the name of “truth,” leaving deeper scars.

Karma, Drishti sometimes whispered, had paid her back.

But Krishti didn’t fully agree. Love wasn’t a crime. Desperation wasn’t always evil. Drishti had simply loved too fiercely in a world that didn’t understand.

Now, sitting together in the Ranawat mansion garden, the three friends shared tea and silence.

Krishti reached out and squeezed Drishti’s hand.

“You deserve happiness too,” she said softly. “One day, someone will see the fire in you and not run from it.”

Drishti smiled — small, tired, but genuine.

“Maybe. Until then… I have my books, my students, and you two.”

Priyanka leaned in, resting her head on Drishti’s shoulder.

“And we have each other.”

Krishti looked at her two best friends — one happily settled, the other carrying invisible wounds — and felt a surge of gratitude for her own life.

She had found love in the most unexpected place.

A love that was fierce, protective, and real.

And she would hold onto it with everything she had.

In the shadowed opulence of the Ranawat mansion, they lingered for just one night—a fragile truce amid gilded walls that whispered secrets of fractured hearts. Krishiti, ever the dutiful daughter-in-law, bent low to touch the feet of her new family, her touch reverent yet laced with quiet rebellion.

But Varshika and Paridhi? Their souls burned for lives unbound by marriage's chains, fierce flames that no tradition could smother. Yashveer and Manveer watched from afar, their paternal worry twisting like thorns for their daughters—and for Gaurika and Harshika, the mothers who ached in silence.

They pleaded, reasoned, especially with Paridhi, but her love was a locked crypt, no room for their light. Even Gaurika urged Krishiti to intervene, to pierce the veil. Krishiti bristled at the intrusion—lives were sacred territories, choices carved in blood.

She would support, not conquer. Yet, yielding to her mother-in-law's shadowed gaze, she approached Varshika first, sensing the storm of love already raging within her. Varshika brushed her off, lost in some vital darkness, and Krishiti simply stood by her side, a silent sentinel. Varshika's heart swelled for this sister-in-law, a bond forged in unspoken loyalty.

Then came Paridhi's chamber, a sanctuary of veiled despair. Krishiti knocked softly, and in that instant, Paridhi shattered—like fragile glass under a lover's cruel heel. Tears carved rivers down her face, raw and unrelenting, revealing a one-sided obsession that clawed at her from childhood: her brother's best friend, a ghost who haunted her every breath.

She spilled fragments of her torment, sobbing until her chest heaved in agony, forgetting to breathe. Panic flared as she fumbled for her asthma inhaler, thrusting it toward Krishiti like a desperate offering. Krishiti's hands moved with tender ferocity—steady, soft, guiding the device, coaxing air back into those broken lungs. In that vulnerable hush, Krishiti vowed silence; she would never betray Paridhi's shadows to the family. Her brothers saw only the moonshine girl, luminous and untouched—never the wreckage beneath.

But Krishiti? She burned with a darker oath: to confront the man who had eclipsed Paridhi's world. Slipping away unseen, Krishiti tracked him to a dimly lit restaurant, the air thick with smoke and unspoken sins. She unleashed her fury, a velvet blade slicing his ego to ribbons, painting vivid strokes of Paridhi's suffering—the nights of silent screams, the love that devoured her alive.

She struck hard, then vanished into the night, leaving him bleeding from wounds she couldn't see. Unbeknownst to her, he carried his own abyss: chains of duty, betrayals that mirrored her pain. When he sought her out later, confessing it all to Krishiti, shock rippled through her like black lightning.

Yet he swore an oath, dark and binding—to claim whatever scraps of Paridhi's heart she might offer, no matter the cost. And for the women of this saga? Their tale spirals into a trilogy of its own—two shadowed volumes where love twists into obsession, from the author who weaves heartbreak into eternity.

But here is what Krishti’s life had taken on a slightly different rhythm.

Every morning she would rush to the bathroom, hit by sudden waves of nausea that left her breathless and weak. She didn’t know what was happening — she simply attributed it to stress, long university hours, or perhaps something she ate. Instead of dwelling on it, she focused on her life — balancing her role as a Professor at Jaipur University with her duties as Riddhimaan’s wife.

She graded papers late into the night, prepared lectures with care, and still made time to cook for him when she could. Their marriage was a beautiful dance of support and understanding.

Her birthday arrived again, and Riddhimaan surprised her in the most extravagant way.

He had been buried in his own work — overseeing Ironcrown’s gun shipments, navigating new underworld routes, and dealing with the ever-complicated alliances — but he carved out time for his lady, his wife, his love.

The surprise began at midnight.

Krishti woke to the soft glow of candles and the scent of her favourite chocolate cake. Riddhimaan sat on the edge of the bed, holding the cake with a single flickering candle, his eyes soft with love.

“Happy birthday, moya zvezdochka,” he whispered.

She sat up, eyes wide with delight, and blew out the candle. They cut the cake together, feeding each other small pieces, laughing quietly in the dark.

But the night didn’t end there.

Riddhimaan’s gaze turned darker, hungrier. He set the cake aside and pulled her into his arms.

Before she could protest, he blindfolded her with his silk tie and tied her wrists gently to the headboard with the same fabric — secure but not painful.

“Tonight,” he murmured against her ear, “I’m going to make you see heaven again.”

He kissed his way down her body — slow, deliberate — until he reached her core. He ate her out with devastating patience — tongue flicking, sucking, licking every fold until she was a shaking, moaning mess. Her thighs trembled around his head, her cries muffled by the blindfold as pleasure built and crashed over her again and again.

Only when she was breathless, sobbing his name, did he untie her.

Then he made love to her — slow and deep at first, eyes locked on hers, whispering how much he loved her, how she was his entire world.

But the hunger grew.

He turned animalistic — thrusting harder, faster, claiming her completely. Krishti begged for more, nails raking down his back, legs wrapped tightly around him.

They moved together in perfect sync — passionate, wild, unbreakable.

When they finally collapsed, spent and glowing, Krishti curled into his chest, heart full.

Their life and love were stronger than ever.

Even though both were buried in work — her lectures and students, his dangerous empire — they always made time for each other.

And their sexual life? It was the wildest, most adventurous part of their marriage — a private universe where they could be completely free.

The next morning, Riddhimaan surprised her again.

He had arranged a private jet. By evening, they were in New York.

They visited the Eiffel Tower replica, the city lights glittering below like a sea of stars. Riddhimaan held Krishti close, his arm wrapped securely around her waist as the cool breeze played with her hair. They wandered through museums hand in hand, losing themselves in art and history, whispering secrets and stolen kisses between exhibits. At a quaint bookstore in SoHo, Krishti spent hours browsing shelves while Riddhimaan watched her with quiet adoration, buying every book she touched without her even asking.

One night, it rained — a sudden, romantic downpour while they were walking back from dinner. Instead of running for cover, Riddhimaan pulled her into his arms and started dancing with her right there on the wet street. The song “Bheegi Saree” from Param Sundari played faintly from a nearby café speaker. He twirled her under the rain, laughing like a child, then pulled her back into his embrace, spinning her until she was dizzy with happiness and love.

They enjoyed every moment — playful, passionate, deeply in love.

After those beautiful days, they returned to Riddhimaan’s penthouse in the city. He had properties everywhere, but this one felt like their private sanctuary.

They went straight to the upper bathroom attached to the bedroom and walk-in closet. Krishti stepped inside and froze in shock and surprise for the eleventh time that trip.

The bathroom was decorated with hundreds of red roses — petals scattered across the marble floor, floating in the large jacuzzi tub, and arranged in elegant vases. The familiar scent of roses and sandalwood filled the air. On the side, a bottle of wine and two glasses waited. Soft lighting cast a warm, intimate glow over everything.

Krishti turned to Riddhimaan, eyes wide with happiness, and kissed his cheek gratefully.

He smiled — that rare, beautiful smile — and watched her as she began to change out of her clothes right in front of him. She no longer felt shy. They had explored each other so thoroughly, tried so many things, that nudity between them felt natural, comfortable, intimate.

Riddhimaan didn’t mind at all. His eyes followed her with quiet hunger and love as he rid himself of his own clothes, then helped her out of hers with gentle hands.

He swooped her into his embrace and stepped into the large tub — big enough for more than three people — with her cradled against his chest. The warm water enveloped them like a soothing embrace.

He settled behind her, pulling her back so she rested against his chest. His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close. They enjoyed the peaceful moment — the quiet splash of water, the scent of roses, the steady beat of his heart against her back.

For a while, it was pure serenity.

Then his mood shifted.

His fingers began to trace lazy patterns on her skin — starting at her collarbone, sliding slowly over her shoulder, then down her arm to her thigh. Krishti clenched slightly at the sensual touch, but he gently parted her legs, continuing to trace teasing lines along her inner thigh.

Her eyes fluttered closed, a soft sigh escaping her as his touch grew more deliberate, more intoxicating.

He was exploring her again — slow, loving, possessive — and she surrendered completely, melting into his embrace under the warm water.

Krishti turned in his arms, straddling his lap. She looked into his eyes — dark with desire and love — and slowly sank down onto him, taking him inside her with a soft, breathless moan.

She ride him softly at first — passionate, unhurried rolls of her hips — feeling every thick inch of him stretch and fill her. The water sloshed gently around them as she moved, her hands resting on his chest for balance.

Riddhimaan groaned, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements while his eyes never left hers.

“That's it, moya zvezdochka,” he whispered, voice rough with love. “Take me just like that… slowly… let me feel all of you.”

She leaned forward, kissing him deeply as she increased the pace — riding him with more passion, more need. Their bodies moved together in perfect sync, water splashing, breaths mingling, hearts beating as one.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, thrusting up to meet her every downward motion.

They made love in the tub — slow, deep, and intensely emotional — until pleasure built and crashed over them both.

Krishti came with a soft cry, trembling in his arms. Riddhimaan followed moments later, groaning her name as he spilled deep inside her.

They stayed locked together — foreheads pressed, breathing heavy — wrapped in the warm water and each other’s love.

After the birthday party, changes in Krishti became more noticeable.

But the real surprise came after Nivaan’s reception.

In the same grand hall, once the guests had left and the lights dimmed, Riddhimaan found Krishti in a drunken, playful state. She had somehow gotten hold of one of the decorative guns kept for security. In her tipsy, childish excitement, she started firing it into the air — not aiming at anyone, but the loud bangs echoed through the mansion.

Maids and bodyguards froze in terror. Family members looked on in shock and trauma. The sound was deafening, the chaos instant.

Thank God Riddhimaan heard it in time.

He rushed inside, heart pounding, and gently but firmly took the gun from his dear, drunken, cute — and very stubborn — wife.

Krishti, in her intoxicated state, grinned up at him and, in front of everyone, pulled him down for a sudden, passionate kiss.

Riddhimaan’s face turned a deep beet red. He stood frozen, completely caught off guard, while the entire family stared in traumatized silence.

Nivaan, trying to lighten the mood but still in disbelief, turned to his mother and said with a nervous laugh,

“Mom… bhabhi definitely has Ranawat blood.”

His mother and father replied in unison, still stunned,

“Yes… you’re right.”

Even Sara couldn’t understand what on earth had happened to her sister.

Riddhimaan didn’t hesitate. He simply scooped his drunk wife onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried her toward their room.

Krishti, still half in another world, sang songs at the top of her voice the entire way — slurred, off-key, and utterly adorable.

Once inside, he laid her gently on the bed. He sighed, carefully removing the gun from her reach and locking it away.

When he turned back, Krishti had already shifted into another position — sprawled across the bed like a starfish, still humming.

The moment she saw him, her mood flipped. She sat up, eyes wide and teary, and started ranting whatever came to her mind — half-coherent complaints mixed with declarations of love.

Riddhimaan only smiled softly and changed her clothes into one of his oversized shirts. It looked adorable on her — swallowing her frame, the hem reaching mid-thigh.

But the next moment, Krishti’s demand came out of nowhere.

“Eat me,” she said cutely, wiping her tears instantly, mood flipping in a second.

Riddhimaan froze — arousal hitting him hard — but he shook his head with a soft sigh.

“Not tonight, baby. You’re drunk. I won’t do that when you’re not fully yourself.”

She immediately started crying again. “My husband doesn’t love me anymore…”

Riddhimaan’s heart cracked. He asked softly, cupping her face, “What do you need, moya zvezdochka?”

She wiped her tears, mood flipping once more, and replied with a cute, demanding pout,

“Eat me.”

And Riddhimaan did.

He pushed her gently onto her back, slid down her body, and worshipped her with his mouth — slow, gentle, loving — until she was moaning his name, trembling, and finally falling apart under his tongue.

After she came down from the high, he pulled the sheet over her, kissed her forehead, and went to the bathroom to take care of himself.

Not only this — Krishti’s mood swings were becoming more unpredictable.

One moment she would demand ice cream with Nutella and chocolate.

The next, chicken biryani at midnight.

Sometimes lemon juice, most frequently at odd hours.

She herself didn’t know what was going on.

Riddhimaan never hesitated. He fulfilled every wish — sending men out at any hour, cooking himself when needed — but he was also deeply concerned about her health.

Sometimes, in the early mornings when she was in the mood, she would give him a sleepy, loving blowjob. The night had been long, but the morning came with its own quiet magic.

Krishti woke up first, the soft sunlight filtering through the curtains. Her body still hummed from the previous night, but there was a different kind of hunger stirring in her — playful, affectionate, and a little bold.

Riddhimaan was still asleep beside her, lying on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. The sheet had slipped low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his abs and the faint trail of hair leading downward.

She bit her lip, feeling a rush of warmth and mischief.

Without waking him, she slid down the bed, carefully pulling the sheet lower until his cock was exposed — already half-hard even in sleep, thick and beautiful.

She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the tip.

Riddhimaan stirred slightly, a low hum escaping his throat, but he didn’t wake fully.

Krishti smiled to herself and took him into her mouth — slow, gentle, loving.

Her tongue swirled around the head, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin. She sucked softly at first, then took more of him, her hand wrapping around the base, stroking in time with her mouth.

Riddhimaan groaned — deep, sleepy, sexy — his hips twitching as he slowly came awake.

“Fuck… moya zvzdochka…” he rasped, voice thick with morning roughness.

She didn’t stop. She sucked him with tender hunger — cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing flat along the underside, taking him as deep as she could without gagging.

Her free hand gently cupped his balls, massaging them softly.

Riddhimaan’s hand found her hair, fingers threading through the strands — not pushing, just holding her gently as he watched her with dark, loving eyes.

“You’re going to kill me one day,” he groaned, hips lifting slightly to meet her mouth.

She hummed around him — the vibration making him curse under his breath.

She kept going — slow, deliberate, pouring all her love into every stroke of her tongue and every gentle suck.

When he came, it was with a low, broken groan — thick pulses filling her mouth. She swallowed every drop, sucking him through the aftershocks until he was trembling and oversensitive.

Only then did she pull off with a soft pop, licking her lips and looking up at him with shy, satisfied eyes.

Riddhimaan pulled her up immediately, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her deeply — tasting himself on her tongue without hesitation.

But enough for Riddhimaan to notice. Krishti—his chaos, his calm—was no longer the same. Mornings—she rushed to the bathroom. Again. And again. Nausea. Weakness.

A quiet discomfort she tried to hide. Nights—were different too. Cravings. Random. Sudden. Things she never asked before—now she demanded like it was the only thing that mattered.

And him? He watched. Closely. Silently.

Concern settling deep in his chest like something he couldn’t ignore anymore.

“Doctor,” he said one evening. Simple. Firm. But Krishti? She snapped.

“Nothing is wrong with me.”

Stubborn. Fierce. Unmovable. And when he pushed—just a little—She kicked him out. From their room. Just like that. The door shut on his face.

The great Riddhimaan Ranawat—the man who made empires bow—ended up on the couch. Sometimes—the guest room. Unbelievable. If anyone else saw this—they wouldn’t survive laughing. The beneath her anger—something was off. Something he couldn’t fight. Tonight—he returned late. Work clinging to him—stress, power, decisions.

But the moment he stepped inside—He paused. The balcony. Different. Soft lights glowing. Candles flickering against the night wind. A quiet table set—not grand—but intimate. A date. Prepared by her. For him. For them. Surprise flickered in his eyes. And there she was—standing near the railing—looking at the night city.

Silent. Lost. Beautiful. The wind played with her hair—her silhouette blending with the darkness beyond.

For a moment—he didn’t move. Just watched her. Because this—this version of her—was unfamiliar. Not the teasing girl. Not the stubborn wife. But something softer. Deeper. He walked toward her slowly. Steps quiet. Presence heavy.

“Throw me out of the room…”

he murmured low, stopping just behind her,

“…and then plan a date?”

A pause. Then softly—

“Make it make sense, moya zvzdochka.”

She didn’t turn immediately. Just let out a small breath. And in that silence—he realized something.

This wasn’t mood. This wasn’t anger. This was change. And for the first time in a long while—Riddhimaan didn’t try to control it. He just stood there—waiting for her—to let him in.

Krishti blushed—just a little. A rare softness. She rubbed the back of her head—nervous, almost… shy. And for a man like Riddhimaan—who had seen her fearless, stubborn, wild—This version?

It shook him more than anything. She took a deep breath. Then walked toward him. “Close your eyes.” Simple. Soft. He didn’t question. He obeyed. Because when it came to her—control was never the point.

Trust was. Before he could process anything—She lifted herself on her toes—and kissed him. Soft. Slow. A kiss that didn’t burn—but settled. He responded instinctively—his hand finding her waist—pulling her just slightly closer.

For a moment—the world paused. Then she broke the kiss—gently. Her lips brushed against his cheek—trailing—toward his earlobe. A whisper followed.

“Now… open your eyes.”

He did. And froze. A small white box—resting against his chest. Nothing grand. Nothing loud. But his heart? It started beating—faster. Heavier. Unsteady. He didn’t know why. Not yet. His hands moved—almost cautiously—as if the box held something fragile. Because somehow—it did. He opened it. And inside—A pregnancy test.

His breath hitched. For a second—he forgot how to breathe. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked it up—eyes scanning—processing—denying—accepting—all at once. Two lines. Clear. Unmistakable. Positive. Silence. Loud.

Deafening. He looked up. Krishti stood there—eyes lowered—lashes trembling—waiting. Not for celebration. But for him.

And in that moment—Riddhimaan—the man who never feared anything—felt something he had never felt before. Not fear. Not power. But something deeper. Something that shook him—to his core.

A life. Their life. Growing—inside her. His grip tightened slightly on the tester—as if grounding himself in reality.

Because this? This wasn’t a deal. Not a war. Not something he could control. This was—creation. And for the first time—He didn’t know what to say. Only one thing echoed inside him—over and over—

I’m going to be a father.

For a moment—Riddhimaan just stood there. Still. Silent. As if the world had paused—just for him.

His eyes—slowly filled. Not weakness. Emotion. Raw. Unfiltered. Happiness—so overwhelming it almost hurt.

And beneath it—a flicker of fear. Because this joy?came with something fragile. Something he could lose. His grip on the test tightened—then loosened—as if he was afraid to break even the moment.

Then suddenly—he moved. Pulled Krishti into his arms—lifting her effortlessly—twirling her softly in the quiet balcony.

A rare laugh escaped him. Unrestrained. Free. He pressed kisses on her cheeks—her forehead—her lips—like he couldn’t stop. Like he needed to feel her—to believe this was real.

“I’m going to be a father…”

His voice cracked. Just slightly. But it carried everything. Krishti nodded—eyes shining—heart trembling in the same rhythm as his.

“Yes…”

Soft. Certain. And that was enough. Because suddenly—everything made sense. The nausea. The cravings. The changes. It wasn’t chaos. It was life. Their life. Growing—inside her. Riddhimaan stilled—his hand slowly moving to her stomach.

Hovering first—as if asking permission—then resting there gently. Carefully. Like the world beneath his palm was sacred. Because it was. His child. A part of him. A part of her. Something they created—without even realizing when everything changed.

A breath left him—heavy. A man like him—who had everything—power, control, fear in others’ eyes—Still felt incomplete. Until this moment. Until this. But happiness—never came alone.

His eyes darkened slightly—not in anger—but in thought. Because alongside the joy—came fear. Her health. Her strength. Her safety. Because she—was everything. Before the child. Before the world. She was his first responsibility. His hand tightened gently over hers—still resting on her stomach.

“Nothing happens to you…”

he murmured low, more promise than words,

“…nothing.”

His forehead touched hers—breaths mingling—heavier now. Protective. Possessive. Because now—he wasn’t just a husband. He was going to be a father. And that? Made him far more dangerous—than he had ever been before.

Riddhimaan didn’t let her stand another second. “You’re standing too much,” he said instantly, voice firm—already slipping into something new. Protection. Instinct. Possession—but softer now.

He guided Krishti to the chair, carefully, like she was something fragile—something sacred. Their fingers entwined naturally. As if they always belonged that way. Then—without hesitation—he knelt.

And pressed his lips against her stomach. Still flat. Still quiet. But no longer empty.

Krishti smiled—soft, emotional, watching him like he had just rewritten her world again.

“I didn’t tell the family…” she whispered.

Riddhimaan looked up—eyes calmer now, but still burning with something deeper.

“We’ll surprise them in the morning.”

Simple. Certain. She nodded. Silence wrapped around them again—comfortable, full. Then his gaze sharpened slightly.

“But how did you find out?”

Krishti exhaled softly—her fingers tightening around his.

“I was feeling weak… more than usual,” she began quietly. “So I checked… my dates…” A pause. “And then it hit me.” Her voice dropped—almost a whisper.

“I missed my period… the nausea… the cravings…” A small, nervous laugh escaped her.

“I was scared… but hopeful too.”

His jaw tightened slightly. He listened. Every word.

“After university… I went to the pharmacy… got the test…” she continued.

“And when I came home… I didn’t wait…” Her eyes shimmered now.

“When it turned positive…”

She smiled—beautiful smile.

“I didn’t know what to feel first.”

Happiness.

Shock.

Fear.

“All at once.”

She looked at him—softly.

“So I thought… I’ll surprise you.”

Riddhimaan shook his head slowly—a faint, disbelieving smile touching his lips.

“You don’t even know what you’ve given me today…”

His voice lowered—thick with emotion.

“I love you so much… moya zvezdochka…” A pause.

“I’m going to be a father…”

The words still felt unreal to him.

“Thank you…”

Krishti’s eyes filled instantly. She shook her head—emotion spilling over.

“No…” she whispered, voice trembling,

“I should be thankful… you gave me everything…”

Her fingers lifted to his face—holding him there.

“I love you, Maan.”

And this time—when they kissed—It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t hunger. A promise. Of a love that had survived everything—and was now ready—to create life. Together.