The soft golden light of dawn filtered through the thin curtains of the ancestral haveli room. Roosters crowed in the distance, and the faint aroma of fresh cow’s milk boiling in the kitchen drifted upstairs.

Poornima stirred, a small smile playing on her lips as she remembered the night before—his warmth, his rare vulnerability, the way he had held her as if she was his anchor.

She quietly slipped out of bed, wrapped her dupatta neatly, and got ready. In the kitchen, she brewed tea just the way he liked it—strong, with just a hint of cardamom. Balancing the two cups, she climbed the creaky wooden staircase back to their room.

Veeresh was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His face was unreadable, his body tense.

“Tea,” she said softly, setting one cup on the side table. “Have it before it gets cold.”

He didn’t touch it. Instead, he stood up abruptly, walked to the window for a moment, then turned back to her.

“Poornima…” his voice was low, flat.

“Yes?” she asked, still holding her cup, a little concerned.

“I’m divorcing you.”

The words sliced through the quiet morning like a blade.

She blinked, frozen. “W… what?”

He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t explain. He simply brushed past her, the faint smell of his cologne trailing behind, and walked out of the room.

The door clicked shut.

Poornima stood there, her hands trembling so hard that the tea in her cup rippled. Her heart felt like it had been wrenched out, crushed, and thrown away. Her knees weakened, and she sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the still-steaming cup he hadn’t touched.

Last night’s warmth now felt like a cruel trick—like someone had given her a home only to set it on fire in the morning.

Her lips trembled as she whispered to the empty room, “Why, Veeresh…?”

And for the first time since their marriage, Poornima felt truly, terrifyingly alone.