Shraddha

Shraddha stepped into the shared room, a modern and stylish space that bore the unmistakable mark of celestial inspiration. The dominant feature was a large wall mural depicting a realistic moon surrounded by stars against a dark, midnight-blue sky. The celestial artwork imbued the room with an otherworldly atmosphere, as if the very cosmos had been invited indoors.

The moon, meticulously rendered, seemed to glow softly, casting its silvery light across the room. Its craters and contours were so lifelike that one could almost imagine reaching out to touch its pockmarked surface. The stars, scattered around the moon, twinkled as if they held secrets whispered across the vastness of space.

The room's color palette echoed the mural: deep, mysterious, and dark. The walls, painted in shades of midnight blue, framed the celestial scene. Against this cosmic backdrop stood a modern bed, its dark bedding blending seamlessly with the mural. The bed was positioned directly in front of the moon, as though inviting its occupants to dream among the stars.

On either side of the bed sat sleek bedside tables, their surfaces uncluttered. Contemporary lamps adorned each table, casting a warm glow that danced with the moon's luminescence. The room's floor, a canvas for texture, hosted a striped rug that peeked out from beneath the bed. Its alternating bands of darkness and light added depth to the space, grounding it in earthly comfort.

The ceiling and remaining walls, intentionally neutral, deferred to the mural. They faded into the background, allowing the moon and stars to command attention. A door on the right side of the room beckoned, leading to another section-the dresser. Here, clothes mingled-hers, his, and little Rudra's-a testament to shared lives and intertwined destinies.

And beyond the dresser lay yet another door, larger than previous one. This one led to the bathroom, a sanctuary of porcelain and tile. The sound of running water whispered through the gap beneath the door, signaling that her husband was taking a shower. Shraddha pushed aside her thoughts.

She gently laid Rudra on the bed, his tiny form nestled against the dark bedding. Half-sitting, half-lying, she positioned herself behind him. The soft curve of her body cradled his, and she placed the feeder in his mouth. His instinct kicked in, and he began to suckle, his tiny hands exploring the contours of her breast. She smiled down at him, her heart swelling with love.

"My baby is really hungry, huh?" she murmured, pressing a kiss to his downy forehead. In that moment, she knew that he was her lifeline-the reason she had persevered through despair and found hope anew. From the day she learned of her pregnancy, everything had changed. Now, every breath she took, every beat of her heart, was dedicated to this precious life she held in her arms.

He finished the milk, and I set the feeding bottle aside. Gently, I placed him on the bed, and his curious eyes scanned the room. A soft giggle escaped his lips, and that simple sound tugged at my heartstrings. His innocence was a balm for my weary soul.

With my shoulder as support, he wobbled to his feet, still unsteady, His tiny hands reached for my cheeks, and before I could react, his pouty mouth pressed against my skin. The warmth of his kiss, coupled with the wetness of his saliva, left a sweet residue on my face. I couldn't help but laugh-a mixture of surprise and delight.

"Baby," I whispered, brushing my fingers through his soft hair, "you love Mumma, don't you?" His baby babble filled the air, and though I couldn't decipher the words, the warmth in his eyes spoke volumes. "Mumma," he repeated, and my heart swelled.

I propped a pillow around him, creating a little nest on the bed. "Now, my little explorer," I said, adopting a stern tone, "I'm going to fetch your clothes. No moving, okay? Sit here like a good boy." His solemn nod and mischievous smile melted away any lingering fatigue.

I crossed the room to the dresser, my fingers skimming over the fabric. Finally, I found the outfit I'd carefully chosen for him.

The room seemed to hold its breath as I stepped out of the dresser, my gaze locking onto Abhimaan. His bare chest, the contours of his muscles, and the way Rudra nestled in his arms-it all sent a jolt through her heart. Rudra, their precious son, was showering his father with kisses, murmuring "Papa."

But for her, this tableau was a cruel reminder. She shared this room with Abhimaan, yet her place in his world was defined solely by her role as Rudra's mother. She was invisible, a mere shadow cast by the brilliance of their bond. Why did he look at her with such indifference? But she knows it's all her fault.She created this wall.

Her eyes welled up, tears threatening to spill. She brushed them away with trembling fingers. Perhaps it was her fate-to be unlovable, to exist on the periphery of their affection. The ache in her chest intensified, a gnawing emptiness that consumed her.she want to make everything alright by telling him the truth yet she can't , she is helpless.

Summoning courage, she approached them. Abhimaan turned, his expression unreadable. He placed Rudra gently on the bed, ensuring the little one was comfortable. Then, with a sudden fierceness, he seized her wrist, his grip unyielding. He positioned her directly in front of him, shielding her from Rudra's innocent gaze.

"Aap ko bas Rudra ka khyaal rakhna hai, vo bhi aap sahi se nahi kar pa rahi hai,"he said, gritting his teeth.She felt pain in her heart but she ignored it.The words hung in the air, a sharp reminder of her inadequacy. Rudra, their son, had been on the verge of falling from the bed. She had failed to protect him.

"Aaj hum sabke samne aap ka koi bhi bachpana bardaasht nahi karenge," Abhimaan continued, his voice harsh. He forced her to face him, their eyes locking. His fingers dug into her skin, and she winced. "Aap Rani sa hai aur Rudra ki Maa bhi. Toh jimmedari ko samajh jayiye."

Her tears threatened to spill again, but she held them back. She knew Abhimaan despised weakness. His love was a cold, calculated thing, wrapped in duty and tradition. She nodded, her voice trembling.

His gaze softened momentarily, a fleeting sympathy that vanished as quickly as it came. "Aur ha, hum aaj aap ke aas paas koi bhi mard ko bardaasht nahi karenge." His finger lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. The touch was both possessive and cruel. "You know how much I detest unanswered questions, Shraddha."

"Yes,"she whispered, her vulnerability laid bare. She felt like a pawn in a game she didn't understand.

And then, unexpectedly, his lips brushed against hers-a fleeting kiss that left her breathless. He released her, leaving her disoriented.

Her heart shattered. The man she'd once loved had become a stranger-a dark force that consumed her. She glanced at Rudra, blissfully unaware of the storm raging between his parents. The child deserved better. She deserved better.Three of them deserved better.

She would fight-for Rudra, for herself. And perhaps, just perhaps, she'd find a way to break through the icy fortress Abhimaan had erected around his heart.

She wiped her tears, her gaze shifting to Rudra, who watched them with wide eyes. Innocence and confusion mingled in his expression.

She came to him and made him wear the outfit for his birthday.

His tiny frame was adorned in an adorable ensemble-a crisp white shirt with a carousel horse embroidered on the left side. The shirt's long sleeves hung just right, and a neat black bow tie adorned the collar. Black suspenders, delicate gold accents glinting, held up his well-tailored black shorts. And those shoes-dark and stylish-completed the look.

Rudra's eyes sparkled as they locked onto the carousel horse. His little fingers reached out, exploring the fabric, feeling the intricate stitches. The softness of the shirt seemed to captivate him, and he tugged at the suspenders, testing their resilience. His cheeks, chubby and rosy, radiated warmth and joy.

"I think my baby liked the outfit," she whispered, cradling him in her arms. Rudra rubbed his eyes with one tiny hand, nestling his head against her neck. His warmth seeped into her, melting away the worries of the day.

And as she held him close and walked towards the door to go to the hall.

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Kiara

In the cozy warmth of the kitchen, the air was thick with the aroma of simmering halwa. My hands deftly stirred the pot, coaxing the ingredients into a harmonious blend of sweetness and spice. The stove crackled, its flames dancing beneath the copper-bottomed vessel.

As I arranged the neatly washed dishes and containers on the countertop, I felt a subtle shift in the room-a presence that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. Turning, I found Drishti bhabhi standing there, her graceful form draped in a vibrant saree. Her eyes held a mixture of amusement and curiosity as they met mine.

I smiled, my cheeks warming. "Bhabhi," I greeted her.

She returned the smile, her lips curving into a knowing expression. "Ah, yes," she said, her voice teasing. "I thought it best to offer my  assistance this time. After all, I remember what happened during your first kitchen adventure."

My blush deepened. The memory flooded back-the kheer incident. It had been my Pehli rasoi, a significant moment for any newlywed bride. The milk had bubbled and frothed, threatening to spill over the sides of the pot. In my haste, I'd reached out to remove it, forgetting the searing heat. The result? A scalded hand and a bandage courtesy of Shraddha bhabhi.

But it was my husband's reaction that had left a lasting impression. Abhiveer, my devilishly protective husband, had stormed into the kitchen, his eyes ablaze. His stern warning echoed in my ears: "No more kitchen adventures, whether it's a ritual or not."

I huffed, my irritation surfacing. "Hum itne bhi laparwah nahi hai, bhabhi. Bacche thodi na hai hum." I wasn't that careless, was I? Surely, I could handle a pot of boiling halwa without incident.

Drishti bhabhi chuckled, her eyes twinkling. "Ha, baat toh sahi hai," she agreed. "But my dear devar needs a little convincing, don't you think?" Her gaze lingered on my reddening cheeks, and I knew she was enjoying this. "He's quite adamant about keeping you away from the kitchen."

I sighed, my emotions a whirlwind. Veer's protectiveness was endearing, but sometimes it felt stifling. I longed to prove myself-to show that I could master the culinary arts without mishaps.

As the halwa continued to bubble, I glanced at the stove. The flames danced, mirroring the flutter in my heart.

And if my cheeks remained beetroot red throughout the process.

"Bhabhi," I quipped, my tone light, "waise aap bhi kehar dha rahi hai , dekhiye ga kahi CM Sahab khud ko control hi na kar paye toh"

Her smile wavered, and I regretted my words. Drishti bhabhi's relationship with her husband was a delicate balance-one that I had inadvertently disrupted. My apologies hung unspoken in the air.

"Can I assist you with anything?" she asked, steering the conversation away from uncomfortable territory. I shook my head, dismissing her offer. "Nothing, bhabhi. Everything's done."

With a nod, we left the kitchen behind, our footsteps echoing in the marble corridor. The palace was a maze of opulence, each room a testament to wealth and tradition. But it was our private haven that beckoned-the room I shared with Abhiveer.

As I stepped into our sanctuary, a sense of fear enveloped me. The celestial-themed bedroom was my refuge-a place where stars danced across the ceiling, and dreams took flight. The navy blue and white bedding cradled a large, inviting bed. Modern bedside tables flanked it, their stylish lamps casting a soft glow. A plush bench rested at the foot of the bed, inviting quiet contemplation.

The room's pièce de résistance was the ceiling-a canvas of constellations. The starry night sky effect created an illusion of sleeping beneath the vast expanse of the cosmos. I often lay there, tracing imaginary patterns, seeking solace in the celestial dance.

A sliding glass window revealed the world beyond-a moonlit garden, its blooms bathed in silver. An elegant chair and table sat nearby, a cozy spot for reading or simply losing oneself in the view.

But , my tranquility shattered. Abhiveer sat on the bed, engrossed in conversation. His phone pressed to his ear, his expression unreadable. The gun lay beside him-an ever-present sentinel. Fear crept into my chest, memories clawing at the edges of my mind.

Blood. Pain. Betrayal.

My breath quickened, and the room blurred. I swayed, my legs threatening to give way. But before I could crumple, his arms enveloped me-a protective cocoon. He lifted me, steadying my trembling form. His hand spanned my waist, the warmth seeping through my saree's thin fabric.

Again, he saved me. From the past, from my own fragility. Abhiveer-the man who had plucked me from darkness and ensnared me in this gilded cage. I was no longer a woman; I was a porcelain doll, fragile and breakable. His love, his possessiveness-it fractured me further.

I wriggled, desperate to escape. But his hold tightened, dangerously unyielding. His eyes bore into mine, a storm of conflicting emotions. "You're safe," he murmured, his voice gravelly. "Always."

Safe, yet confined. Loved, yet suffocated. I yearned for freedom-the open sky beyond our celestial haven. But his grip was unyielding, a vise around my soul.

And so, I struggled-against memories, against my own vulnerability. His fingers dug into my skin, branding me anew. The glass doll cracked, but he held the shards together, refusing to let me shatter completely.

The room crackled with tension as I struggled against his iron grip. His fingers, once gentle, now clamped around me with dangerous force. "Feisty today, wifey?" His voice dripped with menace, and I averted my gaze, hoping to escape his wrath.

But defiance only fueled his anger. He seized my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You know, Kiara," he murmured, his breath hot against my skin, "I don't tolerate such behavior. Don't provoke my temper; you haven't truly witnessed it yet."

My heart raced, and I nodded, defeated. There was no winning against him-no escape. His thumb traced my lips, and I shivered. "Answer me," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

"Okay," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He chuckled, momentarily lost in some distant memory. Then, his hand shifted to my head, and his lips crashed onto mine. The world narrowed to the press of his palm against my cheek, his fingers digging in just enough to hurt. The scent of stale cologne and something vaguely minty enveloped me, drowning out reason and resistance.

In that stolen moment, I tasted fear, desire, and the bitter sweetness of surrender. His kiss held promises and threats, a volatile blend that left me both terrified and strangely alive.

Before I could react, his other hand cupped my chin, forcing it upward. His face loomed over mine, his lips twisted into a smirk. My breath hitched, terror mingling with a primal fight-or-flight instinct.

"Please, no," I whispered, but it was too late.

His lips were hot and clumsy, pressing against mine with a force that sent a jolt of revulsion through me. My own lips remained pressed into a tight line, a silent barrier against the unwanted invasion. The taste of him-a sickly sweet aftertaste of something sugary-filled my mouth.

Every muscle in my body screamed at me to shove him away, but I was frozen, trapped between his hands and my own fear. The seconds stretched into an eternity, the only sound the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Then, just as abruptly as it had started, it was over. He pulled back, a triumphant glint in his eyes. My chest heaved, my lungs burning for a proper breath. The air tasted stale, tainted by his presence.

The world snapped back into focus, but all I could see was the smirk on his face. My eyes watered, and with a surge of willpower, I pushed him away. I stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Alone, I wondered why I felt so helpless, why I had let him overpower me again. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I muffled my sobs with my hand.

After my crying subsided, I stood and walked towards the mirror. It wasn't as bad as I had feared. I adjusted my hair and dabbed at my smeared lipstick. With a deep breath, I opened the door hesitantly and found the room empty. I sighed with relief and walked towards the exit.

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Drishti

As I stepped into our room , Well it's Abhimanyu's Room, the ambiance enveloped me-a harmonious blend of comfort and aesthetics. The large, plush bed stood at the room's heart, inviting me to sink into its softness. Neatly arranged pillows and a cozy comforter adorned the bed, promising restful nights. Above the bed, an artistic rock wall installation extended partially to the ceiling, its rugged texture contrasting with the room's contemporary design. The rocks seemed to whisper stories of ancient landscapes, grounding the space in nature.

The ceiling itself was a celestial canvas, adorned with tiny lights that mimicked stars. They twinkled softly, casting a gentle glow reminiscent of moonlight. As I gazed upward, I felt as though I could lose myself in the vastness of the cosmos. The room transformed into a sanctuary-a place where dreams could take flight.

To the left of the bed, built-in shelves displayed decorative items. A collection of ceramic vases, each unique in shape and color, caught my eye. They held memories-trinkets from our travels, tokens of love exchanged. A small bonsai tree perched on one of the shelves, its delicate leaves reaching toward the light. It was a living sculpture, a testament to patience and care.

Beneath my feet, a soft rug lay on sleek flooring. Its fibers welcomed my toes, providing a comforting contrast to the cool surface.

The room, a silent testament to solitude, echoed my loneliness. Abhimanyu, ever consumed by his duties as Chief Minister, remained absent, his presence reduced to a mere whisper against the vastness of our shared space. His world revolved around politics, and mine, it seemed, had shrunk to the confines of these walls.

I often pondered the irony of it all-how I, once fiercely independent, had become an unwilling pawn in a political alliance. My father, blinded by ambition, had bartered my freedom for a union that served his interests. The day Abhimanyu took his oath as Chief Minister of Rajasthan was the day my spirit fractured. My pleas for refusal, my tears-they were all but ignored, drowned out by the revelry of those who saw my misery as mere spectacle.I denied to marry but they were so blind to see anything , so deaf to hear anything.

His family, save for his dadi, had welcomed me, yet their warmth could not thaw the chill that had settled in my heart. I had resolved to sever the emotional ties that bound me to Abhimanyu, to revel in the solitude that had become my sanctuary.He cares deeply, I realize now. I had thought he merely accepted me as a token of pride from my father, but he was entirely different. He embraced me as if I were his long-lost love, his feelings far more intense than I ever imagined. Yet, I find myself recoiling from his affection. I don't want him to love me—I can't bear it. A gnawing fear tells me that if he truly loves me, they will inevitably tear him away. The very thought of losing him is unbearable, so I must keep his love at bay, no matter how much it pains us both.

But he never revealed the true reason behind his agreement to this alliance. Despite my desperate pleas and tearful entreaties, he forced this marriage upon me—upon us both. His stubborn silence only deepened my anguish and confusion. Each time I begged for an explanation, his eyes would cloud over with an emotion I couldn't decipher—was it regret, fear, or something else entirely?The weight of his unspoken motivations hung heavily between us, an invisible barrier that grew more impenetrable with each passing day. I found myself trapped in a web of secrets and obligations, longing for the freedom to choose my own path, yet bound by duty and my father's inexplicable determination. The question of 'why' echoed in my mind, a relentless torment that offered no respite.

With a heavy heart, I approached the nightstand, the weight of expectation pressing down upon me. I dialed his number, the familiar tune playing out as the call went unanswered. A sigh escaped my lips as I placed the phone back down, my gaze drifting to the closet. There, amidst the shadows, lay the gift I had procured for Rudra. Clutching it, I made for the exit, only to be halted by the shrill ring of the phone.

It was him-Abhimanyu-calling back. I hesitated, then answered, pressing the device to my ear.

"Yes, Drishti, you called?" His voice, breathless and hurried, filled the silence. Was he sprinting through the corridors of power, I wondered?

I responded with a noncommittal hum, my mind adrift in thoughts unvoiced. "Is there any problem?" he inquired, a note of concern threading his tone-a concern I questioned in its sincerity.

"Ji, Rudra ka Birthday celebration start hone wala hai, aap kab tak aayenge?" I asked, masking the resignation in my voice with a veneer of formality.

"I will be there with you in half an hour. Just a worker will reach you in a few; hand him my dress," he instructed, his words brisk, businesslike.

"Which dress?" I queried, a frown creasing my brow.

"The one you want to see me in, jaan," he replied, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. I rolled my eyes, a gesture lost in the one-sided conversation. His words, meant to be endearing, felt hollow. I hummed a response and ended the call.

I rummaged through his wardrobe, my fingers brushing against the fabric of the outfit I knew would suit him best. It wasn't long before a knock at the door announced the arrival of the guard. I handed over the garment, a silent transaction that spoke volumes of the distance between us.

A glance in the mirror offered a reflection of a woman caught in the web of political alliances-a woman who had learned to navigate the complexities of a life not entirely her own. With a deep breath, I turned away, stepping out of the room

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