Rudra's Perspective

The next morning, the silence in our suite was heavy and protective. I watched **Ishi** for a long moment; she was curled into a tiny ball, clutching her heating pad like a lifeline, her **long curly hair** fanned out across the white pillows. The period pain was clearly still draining her. I moved like a ghost, tucking the heavy duvet around her shoulders, ensuring not even a sliver of cold air could touch her.

I finished my gym session, showered in the guest bathroom so the water wouldn't wake her, and headed to my home office. But the peace of Rathor Villa was short-lived.

Downstairs, the grand doors swung open to a familiar, sharp voice that set my teeth on edge. **Bua Ji** had arrived. She was the one who had spent our entire wedding making snide remarks about Ishita’s **brown skin** and her "middle-class" Sharma family roots. She was my father’s sister, so etiquette demanded a welcome, but my patience with her was non-existent.

In our room, the bedside phone buzzed. Ishita groaned, reaching out blindly to answer it.

"Bhabhi?" **Ahana’s** voice came through, hushed and urgent. "Bhabhi, Bua Ji aayi hain ghar, apni saas ke saath. (Bua Ji is here with her mother-in-law.) Please ready hoke niche aa jao. (Please get ready and come down.)"

Ishita rubbed her eyes, her voice raspy with sleep. "Bua Ji? Abhi?"

"Haan, aur Bhabhi... ek baat aur," Ahana hesitated. "Aapko **ghunghat** (veil) karna padega aaj. Bua Ji ki saas thodi old-fashioned hain, gao ki hain na... woh thoda parda-varda dekhti hain. (You’ll have to wear a veil today. Bua Ji’s mother-in-law is old-fashioned, from the village... she expects that tradition.)"

Ishita sighed, feeling a sharp cramp shoot through her abdomen. The last thing she wanted to do was drape a heavy saree and pull a veil over her face while her body felt like it was breaking.

"Theek hai, Ahana. Main aati hoon," Ishita whispered.

She dragged herself out of bed, her **red chooda** feeling heavy as she began the process of getting ready. She chose a traditional silk saree, its rich fabric a sharp contrast to her **brown skin**, and prepared herself to face the woman who had never seen her as "enough" for the Rathor Prince.

I was standing at the top of the stairs when I saw Ishita emerge from our room. She had the pallu of her saree pulled low over her forehead, hiding her beautiful face. She looked like a perfect, traditional daughter-in-law, but I could see the slight wince in her step as she moved.

"Ishi," I intercepted her, my **6'3" frame** blocking her path. My **ocean-blue eyes** narrowed as I took in the veil. "What is this? Why are you hiding?"

"Ru... Bua Ji ki saas aayi hain," she whispered from behind the silk. "Tradition hai. Unhe bura lagega."

"I don't care about their traditions if it makes you uncomfortable while you're sick," I growled, my hand reaching out to lift the veil.

"Nahi, please," she caught my hand. "Sirf thodi der ki baat hai. Kalesh nahi chahiye aaj. (No, please. It's just for a little while. I don't want any drama today.)"

I tightened my grip on her hand, my heart hardening. I knew Bua Ji. She wouldn't just expect a veil; she would look for reasons to prick at Ishita’s confidence.

💖 Ishita's Perspective

The cramps were still pulsing through my lower back, making every step feel like I was walking on glass. My **5'3" slim figure** felt so small under the heavy silk saree, and the **ghunghat** made it hard to breathe, but I kept my head down. I could feel **Ru’s** intense, burning gaze from the stairs—I knew he was a ticking time bomb, and I silently prayed he’d stay quiet.

I approached Bua Ji and her mother-in-law, my **silver payal** chiming softly in the tense silence of the hall. I leaned down to touch Bua Ji’s feet first.

"Hamare yahan dabate hain, Ishita," Bua Ji said sharply, her voice dripping with that familiar condescension. (In our house, we press the feet.)

I didn't argue. I shifted my weight, ignoring the sharp twinge in my abdomen, and pressed her feet as she sat back like a queen. My **red chooda** clinked against the floor.

"Bas, bas, bas," the old saas-ji finally muttered. I stood up slowly, feeling a bit dizzy.

"Maine tumhari muh-dikhai nahi kari thi," the old lady said, squinting at me through her thick glasses. "Aao zara dekhu. (I haven't done your face-unveiling yet. Come, let me see.)"

She reached up, her rough fingers lifting my veil. I stood there, my **brown eyes** downcast, my **brown skin** glowing under the hall’s chandeliers. She handed me a heavy gold ring and some cash as a gift, but then she looked at my pale face and the dark circles under my eyes.

She turned to **Maa** with a scoff. "Siya, teri bahu toh thak gayi itni der mein hi! (Siya, your daughter-in-law got tired in just this much time!) Itni kamzor ladki laayi hai? (You brought such a weak girl?)"

Maa stepped forward immediately, her voice gentle but protective. "Behen ji, uski tabiyat thik nahi hai na aaj, isliye... (Sister, her health isn't well today, that's why...)" Maa looked at me with so much love. "Ishu beta, aaja, baith ja. (Ishu, come and sit.)"

I moved to sit, but I could feel the temperature in the room drop by ten degrees. I looked up and saw **Rudra**.

He was standing near the pillar, his **6'3" frame** rigid, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. His **ocean-blue eyes** were fixed on Bua Ji with a cold, murderous intent that usually preceded a corporate massacre. He took one step forward, his jaw set, ready to roar.

But **Papa (Ram Singh Rathore)** was quicker. He subtly raised a hand, catching Rudra’s eye and giving a firm, slight shake of his head. *Not now. Not in front of the elders.*

Rudra stopped, but the look he gave me was one of pure, agonized frustration. He hated seeing me "serve" people who didn't respect me, especially when he knew I was in pain. I gave him a tiny, pleading shake of my head, adjusting my **ghunghat** back over my face as I sat on the edge of the sofa.

"Kamzori toh dikhegi hi," Bua Ji added, sipping her tea. "Sharma ji ki beti hai, khandan ka khoon thodi na hai. (Weakness will show... she's Sharma ji's daughter, it's not like she has the family blood.)"

I felt a sharp intake of breath from **Akshat and Jay** across the room. The air was thick with the scent of Jasmine and impending disaster.

I could see **Ru** vibrating with rage. He had that specific vein popping in his temple, and I knew he was about to incinerate Bua Ji with a single sentence. But before he could open his mouth and cause a family scandal, **Bebe** leaned back with a regal, effortless swag.

"Arre, Bhen ji," Bebe said, her voice dripping with a honey-coated sting. "Takat khoon mein nahi, niyat mein hoti hai. Hamari Ishu ne toh poore Rathor khandan ko apne pyar se baandh rakha hai. Ab jiske naseeb mein aisi heere jaisi bahu ho, use kamzori kahan dikhegi? (Strength isn't in the blood, it's in the intention. Our Ishu has bound the whole Rathor family with her love. When someone is lucky enough to have a diamond-like daughter-in-law, where would they see weakness?)"

I saw **Jay** turn his head away to hide a smirk, and even **Akshat** had to look down at his lap to keep from laughing at Bebe’s smooth shut-down.

**Urmila Chachi**, always the caring soul, noticed me shivering slightly from the january winter and the period chills. She looked at **Ahana**. "Ahana beta, Bhabhi ko shawl leke de ek toh. Bimar hai upar se aise hi aa gayi ye... ja leke aa. (Ahana, get a shawl for your Bhabhi. She's unwell and came down just like this... go, get it.)"

As Ahana ran upstairs, the conversation shifted to the typical "scrutiny" of new brides. **Dhristi and Reet** were moving gracefully through the room, their faces hidden behind their own **ghunghats** as they served snacks and tea. Even though they were established in the house, today they were the dutiful Rathor bahus, standing in solidarity with me.

Bua Ji’s saas leaned forward, her eyes narrow. "Pehli rasoi ho gayi? (Has the first-cooking ceremony happened?)"

"Haan! Kab ki!" Bebe replied proudly, waving her hand. Itni achi kheer banai thi humari bahu ne... poora ghar ungliyan chatta reh gaya. (Yes! Long ago! She made such a beautiful kheer... the whole house was licking their fingers.)"

I sat there, feeling the warmth of the family's protection, but my eyes drifted to the corner where **Rudra** was leaning against the wall. He wasn't looking at the guests. He was staring at my stomach, his face a mask of pained empathy. He knew I was hurting, and he hated every second I spent sitting on that sofa instead of resting in his arms.

Bua Ji leaned in, whispering loudly to her saas, "Kheer toh theek hai, par suna hai Sharmas ne dahej mein kuch khaas nahi diya tha... (The kheer is fine, but I heard the Sharmas didn't give much in the dowry...)"

I felt the air in the room turn ice-cold. Rudra’s eyes snapped toward Bua Ji, and this time, even Papa’s gesture couldn't hold him back. He pushed off the wall, his **6'3" frame** looming over the seating area like a dark cloud.

"Bua Ji," Rudra’s voice was like a low, dangerous thunder. "The Rathors don't take dowry. We *give* empires. And Ishita brought the only thing this house was lacking—a heart. If I hear one more word about her family or her background, I’ll make sure your visit to Rathor Villa is remembered as your last."

The room went silent. Bua Ji’s tea cup rattled against the saucer.

I managed to keep a straight face until I crossed the threshold of the kitchen with **Dhristi and Reet**. The moment we were out of sight, we all let out a collective sigh of relief and flipped our **ghunghats** back.

"Yahan waise hi jaan nikal rahi hai, inhe nasta chahiye! (My life is already draining out of me, and they want breakfast!)" I groaned, leaning against the marble counter and pressing my hand to my aching stomach.

"Seriously, Bua Ji is acting like she’s in a 90s daily soap," Reet muttered, fanning herself with her dupatta.

Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open, and **Rudra** marched in. He looked completely out of place in the kitchen—his **6'3" frame** and expensive suit clashing with the rows of spice jars—but his **ocean-blue eyes** were burning with protective fury.

"Koi zaroorat nahi hai banane ki," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Servants kis liye hain? Sit here and rest. (There's no need to cook. What are the servants for?)"

I looked at him, a mischievous smile playing on my lips despite the pain. "Wow, kya idea diya aapne! Thank you! (What an idea you've given!)" I pulled him down by his tie and gave him a quick, grateful kiss on his cheek.

I turned to the girls, my **brown eyes** sparkling. "Reet, Dhristi... let the servants make it. We will just go out and bol denge humne banaya hai! (We'll just say we made it!)"

Rudra crossed his arms over his **muscular chest**, looking unimpressed. "Uski bhi zaroorat nahi hai. (There’s no need for that either.) I'll go out there and tell them—"

"Offo! Aap jaiye na bahar!" I said, gently pushing his solid chest toward the door. "Ok jaiye... suniye woh kya bol rahi hain mere baare mein. Phir aakar batana, hum milkar chugli karenge, thik hai? (Go outside! Listen to what she's saying about me. Then come back and tell me; we'll gossip together, okay?)"

Rudra froze, blinking down at me in pure shock. Rajasthan’s most feared businessman, the man who handled international conspiracies, was being asked to be a spy for a gossip session.

"You want me... to eavesdrop... so we can 'chugli'?" he asked, his voice flat with disbelief.

"Exactly, **Patidev**! Go!" I giggled, giving him one last shove.

He shook his head, a helpless, lopsided smile finally breaking through his stony expression. "I am the President of Eternity and I am currently being demoted to an undercover gossip agent. Only for you, Ishi. Only for you."

He turned and walked back out to the lion's den, looking like he was heading into a board meeting but secretly tuned in to every word Bua Ji was whispering.

In the kitchen, the servants were working like a well-oiled machine, frying golden, crispy samosas while we supervised with our arms crossed. Just as the first batch was laid out on a paper towel, two shadows crept in from the back entrance.

**Jay** and **Ahana** were moving like ninjas, their eyes locked on the tray. Jay’s hand was inches away from a steaming hot samosa when I cleared my throat loudly.

"Chori pakdi gayi! (Caught in the act!)" I exclaimed, laughing.

Jay jumped, nearly knocking over a jar of chutney. "Bhabhi! Please! I’ve been sitting out there listening to Bua Ji’s lecture on 'Sanskars' for forty minutes. I’ve burned more calories listening to her than I do at the gym. I need this!"

Ahana pouted, already grabbing a small piece of crust. "Seriously, Bhabhi, the atmosphere out there is so heavy. This samosa is my only motivation to go back."

"Theek hai, theek hai, khao (Okay, okay, eat)," I said, but then I noticed **Dhristi and Reet**. They weren't just watching; they were already mid-chew. Dhristi was frantically wiping a smudge of tamarind chutney from the corner of her mouth, while Reet was trying to swallow a giant bite before she got caught by **Maa** who was passing by the kitchen door.

"Oye! Tum dono?" I teased, pointing at them.

"Kya karein Ishu bhabhi , stress eating is a real thing!" Reet whispered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Now come on, let's play our roles."

We all took a deep breath, adjusted our **ghunghats** back over our faces, and picked up the heavy silver trays. We walked back into the living room with the slow, graceful gait of "perfect" bahus.

As we approached, **Bua Ji** looked at the tray with a critical eye. "Itni der laga di? (Took you this long?)"

"Bua Ji, haath se banaye hain na... toh waqt lagta hai (We made them by hand, so it takes time)," Reet lied through her teeth, her voice muffled by her veil. Beside her, Dhristi gave a tiny, silent hiccup from the spicy chutney she’d just bolted down.

I set the tray down in front of the old saas-ji. I felt a presence behind me and knew it was **Ru**. I glanced back through the thin fabric of my veil and saw him standing there, his arms crossed over his **muscular chest**, looking at me with a look that said, *'I know exactly what you just did in that kitchen.'*

He leaned down slightly, his voice a ghost of a whisper near my ear. "You have a crumb on your chin, **Patidev ki biwi**. If Bua Ji sees it, your 'hand-made' story is over."

My eyes went wide under the veil. I quickly used the edge of my pallu to wipe my face, while Rudra let out a silent, deep chuckle, clearly enjoying the chaos of our little kitchen conspiracy.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Despite the "perfect bahu" act, the reality of my period pain was clawing at me. I stood there, hidden behind my **ghunghat**, feeling a familiar, large hand settle discreetly on my lower back. **Rudra** was standing right behind me, his body shielding me from the others' view as he began to rub the small of my back in slow, soothing circles. The heat from his palm was the only thing keeping me upright.

Bua Ji took a slow, deliberate bite of a samosa and wiped her mouth. "Maine suna hai kaam par jaana shuru kar diya? (I heard you started going to work?)" she asked, her voice sharp. "Abhi toh ek mahina bhi nahi hua shaadi ko. (It hasn't even been a month since the wedding.)"

She turned to **Siya Maa**, her eyes narrowing. "Siya bhabhi, kaafi choot de rakhi hai tumne apni bahu ko. (Siya bhabhi, you've given your daughter-in-law a lot of freedom.) Waise bhi, tumhari toh pehli bahu hai na, woh bhi sabse bade bete ki... choot toh milegi hi. Upar se love marriage!"

The room went silent. The way she emphasized "love marriage" made it sound like a crime.

Bua Ji’s saas chimed in, "Love marriage? Ohho... Rudra toh pyar-vyar se door rehta tha, ab kya hua? (Rudra used to stay away from love and all, what happened now?)"

I felt Rudra’s hand stiffen on my back. I knew his **ocean-blue eyes** were probably darkening with a dangerous storm.

"Aap aise kyun bol rahi hain?" Maa said firmly, her voice trembling slightly with offense. "**Dhristi aur Reet** bhi ghar ki bahu hain. (Dhristi and Reet are also daughters-in-law of this house.)"

Bua Ji let out a cold laugh. "Woh aapki nahi hain na! Woh Urmila bhabhi ki bahu hain. Akshat aur Vardaan unke bete hain, aapke nahi. Aapke toh Rudra, Jay, aur Ahana hain. (They aren't yours! They are Urmila bhabhi's. Akshat and Vardaan are her sons, not yours. Yours are Rudra, Jay, and Ahana.)"

The divisiveness in her words was poison. **Lakhan Chacha** stood up immediately. "Aisa kuch nahi hai! Humare ghar koi tera-mera nahi hai, sab apna hai! (There's nothing like that! In our house, there is no 'yours or mine,' everyone is ours!)"

"Haan," **Bebe** added with a stern look. "Hum bhed-bhaav nahi karte. Sab apne hain. (Yes, we don't discriminate. Everyone is our own.)"

Bua Ji rolled her eyes, looking directly at where I stood under the veil. "Badi bahu ne badal diya sabko. Model hai na, of course... par nikal aaye. (The elder daughter-in-law has changed everyone. She's a model, of course... her true colors are showing.)"

I felt a surge of hurt, but before I could react, Rudra stepped forward. He didn't just stand near me; he wrapped his arm fully around my shoulder, pulling my **5'3" frame** into the solid protection of his **6'3" muscular body**.

"Bua Ji," Rudra’s voice was like a freezing wind, calm but lethal. "Ishita didn't change this family. She completed it. And as for her being a model—she is the face of india and the pride of the **Rathor ** . If you think her 'wings' have come out, you’re right. And as her husband, I’m the one who makes sure she has the sky to fly in."

He looked down at me, ignoring the gasps of the guests. "And as for Akshat and Vardaan... if I ever hear you try to divide my brothers from my mother again, you won't just be leaving this house—you'll be erased from its history."

Bua Ji's face turned pale. She hadn't expected the "Cold Prince" to be so vocal about his "Pookie" side in front of the elders.

The heavy scent of the fried samosas, the suffocating heat under the **ghunghat**, and the sheer venom in Bua Ji’s words finally became too much. My stomach, already cramped and sensitive from my periods, revolted at the oily food I’d just bolted down in the kitchen.

The world tilted. The voices of the elders blurred into a distant, underwater hum. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead, and my legs felt like they were made of wax.

I leaned closer to Maa, my voice barely a broken whisper that only she and the man standing behind me could hear.

"Mujhse aur nahi ho raha, Maa... (I can't do this anymore, Maa...)" I gasped, my hand instinctively reaching out to grab the edge of the sofa to keep from collapsing. "Mujhe chakkar aa rahe hain... please. (I'm feeling dizzy... please.)"

I didn't even have time to fall.

Before I could slip, two powerful arms snatched me up. **Rudra** didn't care about the guests, he didn't care about the "tradition" of me staying in the room, and he certainly didn't care about Bua Ji’s opinion anymore. He swept my **5'3" frame** off the floor, cradling me against his **muscular chest** as if I were made of glass.

My **ghunghat** slipped back, revealing my pale face and the beads of sweat on my **brown skin**.

"Ishi!" He barked her name, his **ocean-blue eyes** wide with a terror I had only seen during the kidnapping days.

"Rudra! Yeh kya badtameezi hai? Sabke saamne—" Bua Ji started, standing up in shock.

"Shut up!" Rudra roared, his voice shaking the chandeliers. He didn't even look at her. His gaze was locked on my half-closed eyes. "Maa, call the doctor. Now!"

"Rudra, use kamre mein le ja (Take her to the room)," Maa said urgently, her face pale with worry. She turned to Bua Ji with a look of steel. "Meri bahu bimar hai, aur aap log yahan kheer-pode ki baatein kar rahe hain? Sharam kijiye! (My daughter-in-law is sick, and you all are talking about sweets? Have some shame!)"

Rudra didn't wait for another word. He turned on his heel and carried me up the grand staircase in long, frantic strides. I buried my face in his neck, the scent of his cologne fighting the nausea.

"I'm sorry, Ru..." I whispered, my voice trembling. "Main sab bigad diya. (I ruined everything.)"

"Shh," he breathed, his grip tightening as he kicked our bedroom door open. "You didn't ruin anything, Janna. I should have never let you go down there. Just hold onto me. I’ve got you."

👑 Rudra's Perspective

I kicked the bedroom door shut, the echoes of the chaos downstairs still ringing in my ears. My blood was boiling. I had half a mind to go back down and physically remove Bua Ji from the premises, but the pale, trembling woman in my arms was my only priority.

I laid her on the bed, but the moment her head hit the pillow, her hand flew to her mouth. Her **brown eyes** were wide and watery.

"Ru... bathroom..." she choked out.

I didn't waste a second. I scooped her back up and rushed into the ensuite. I held her hair back—those **long curly tresses** I had just braided so carefully—as she threw up the samosas she shouldn't have eaten. My heart twisted with every sound she made. This was my fault; I should have put my foot down the moment I saw her in that veil.

Once she was finished, I wiped her face with a cool, damp cloth and rinsed her mouth, then carried her back to the bed. I sat on the edge, my **6'3" frame** hovering over her as I tucked the duvet up to her chin.

"Kyu khaya?" I asked, my voice a mix of a stern lecture and pure agony. "Jab suit nahi karte, Janna, toh kyun khaya? (Why did you eat them? When they don't suit you, why did you eat them?)"

"Bua Ji kehti ki maine taste bhi nahi kiya... (Bua Ji would have said I didn't even taste them...)" she whispered, her voice weak.

"I don't give a damn what that woman says!" I snapped, though I immediately softened when she winced. I leaned down, kissing her forehead. "Rest now. No more talking.

### Meanwhile, Downstairs...

**Akshat and Vardaan** were standing in the middle of the hall, looking like two hunters who had finally cornered their prey. The "Pookie" masks were gone.

"Bua Ji," Akshat said, his voice as cold as mine. "I think it’s time for you to leave. Ishita Bhabhi is unwell because of the stress you brought into this house."

"Leave?" Bua Ji scoffed, looking at the elders. "I am the daughter of this house! I’ll stay as long as I want. I’m going to the guest room to rest. I expect tea in half an hour."

She turned and marched toward the guest wing with her mother-in-law, ignoring the glares of the entire family. **Jay** looked at Akshat, his jaw tight. "Bhai, she’s actually staying? After what she said to Maa and Bhabhi?"

"She thinks she's safe because of 'tradition'," Akshat muttered. "But she forgot that Rudra bhai isn't the only one who protects the women of this house."

I sat back against the headboard, pulling her shivering body flush against mine. She snuggled into me, her small frame finding its place half-on-top of me under the heavy layers of blankets. I could feel the faint rhythm of her heartbeat, and it killed me that she was in this much discomfort.

I took her hands in mine, rubbing them vigorously. I’ll never understand it—no matter how hot the delhi sun in summer or winters is or how many blankets I pile on her, her hands are always like ice. It’s a constant mystery to me, one that makes me want to hold her even tighter.

"Ru..." she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion, "Aapki body itni warm kaise rehti hai? (How is your body always so warm?)"

"Kyunki mere paas aap ho, Janna," I whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The door creaked open slightly. I looked up, my **ocean-blue eyes** softening as I saw **Maa** standing there. She didn’t say a word, not wanting to wake Ishita if she had finally fallen asleep. She just looked at me with an arched brow, her eyes full of maternal concern, gesturing with her hands: *'How is she? Is she okay?'*

I nodded slowly, adjusting the blanket to make sure Ishita was fully covered. I made a 'sleeping' gesture and then pointed to my stomach, indicating the cramps were still there but she was resting.

Maa gave a small, relieved smile and blew a silent kiss toward us before pointing toward the hallway—likely heading back down to deal with the "guest" who refused to leave.

I looked down at the woman in my arms. Her **long curly hair** was a bit of a mess now, escaping the braid I’d worked so hard on, but she looked like an angel. My jaana who tried so hard to be the perfect bahu that she made herself sick.

"Abhi toh sirf Bua Ji aayi hain," I thought, my jaw tightening as I remembered the '3-year gap' and the blackmailers who had tried to take this peace away from us. "Wait until the real truth comes out. I’ll burn the world down before I let anyone make her cry or throw up ever again."

I continued to rub her cold hands, the sound of her steady breathing the only thing keeping my own temper in check.

I adjusted the pillows so she was completely cradled against me. Her breathing finally evened out into a deep, heavy slumber, though she still gave a small, unconscious whimper every few minutes when a cramp hit.

Even in her sleep, her hands remained like blocks of ice. It worried me. I reached for my phone on the nightstand with one hand, careful not to disturb her, and pulled up my private doctor’s contact. I couldn't wait until the morning; I needed to know why my wife felt like she was made of snow every time she was unwell.

> **To: Dr. Khanna**

> "She’s sleeping now, but her hands and feet are unnaturally cold despite heavy blankets and a heating pad. This happens every time she’s in pain or stressed. Why is this happening? Is it a circulation issue or what I need an answer before she wakes up."

I hit send and tossed the phone aside, my **ocean-blue eyes** fixed on her peaceful face. The doctor knew our history—he knew about the kidnapping, the three years of hell she endured while we were apart, and the toll it took on her health. I suspected it was a lingering effect of the trauma, a physical manifestation of the fear she’d lived through, but seeing her like this made me feel powerless.

I tucked her feet under my legs, trying to share my body heat.

"I've got you, Ishi," I whispered into the silence of the room. "No one is coming near this door. Not Bua Ji, not the world."

Just as I was about to close my eyes, my phone buzzed. A message from **Jay** in the family group chat (the one without the elders):

> **Jay:** "Bhai, Bua Ji is in the kitchen 'inspecting' the dinner prep. She’s asking why the 'Badi Bahu' isn't making the rotis. Akshat Bhai is literally vibrating with anger. Should we initiate 'Operation: Ghost Guest'?"

I didn't even type a reply. I just sent a single 'thumbs up' emoji. They knew what to do. If Bua Ji wanted a traditional experience, my brothers were about to show her exactly how 'traditional' a Rathor's protection could get.

I adjusted the pillows so she was completely cradled against me. Her breathing finally evened out into a deep, heavy slumber, though she still gave a small, unconscious whimper every few minutes when a cramp hit.

Even in her sleep, her hands remained like blocks of ice. It worried me. I reached for my phone on the nightstand with one hand, careful not to disturb her, and pulled up my private doctor’s contact. I couldn't wait until the morning; I needed to know why my wife felt like she was made of snow every time she was unwell.

> **To: Dr. Khanna**

> **Subject: Urgent Query - Ishita**

> "She’s sleeping now, but her hands and feet are unnaturally cold despite heavy blankets and a heating pad. This happens every time she’s in pain or stressed. Why is this happening? Is it a circulation issue or related to the trauma from the 3-year gap? I need an answer before she wakes up."

I hit send and tossed the phone aside, my **ocean-blue eyes** fixed on her peaceful face. The doctor knew our history—he knew about the kidnapping, the three years of hell she endured while we were apart, and the toll it took on her health. I suspected it was a lingering effect of the trauma, a physical manifestation of the fear she’d lived through, but seeing her like this made me feel powerless.

I tucked her feet under my legs, trying to share my body heat.

"I've got you, Ishi," I whispered into the silence of the room. "No one is coming near this door. Not Bua Ji, not the world."

Just as I was about to close my eyes, my phone buzzed. A message from **Jay** in the family group chat (the one without the elders):

> **Jay:** "Bhai, Bua Ji is in the kitchen 'inspecting' the dinner prep. She’s asking why the 'Badi Bahu' isn't making the rotis. Akshat Bhai is literally vibrating with anger. Should we initiate 'Operation: Ghost Guest'?"

I didn't even type a reply. I just sent a single 'thumbs up' emoji. They knew what to do. If Bua Ji wanted a traditional experience, my brothers were about to show her exactly how 'traditional' a Rathor's protection could get.