Veeresh pushed open the heavy carved door of their room. His steps halted instantly.

On the dressing table lay her mangalsutra, carefully removed and placed aside as if it had never belonged to her. Next to it—a file. Divorce papers.

Poornima stood by the window, her back to him, her shoulders trembling though her chin was held high.

His voice came out low, dangerous. “What is this?”

She turned slowly, her eyes swollen from crying, her voice hoarse but firm. “Divorce papers, Veeresh. I don’t want to live with you anymore.”

The words sliced through him like a blade, but his pride rose like fire. “On my dead body you will divorce me. I married you, Poornima. You are mine.”

She shook her head, bitter laughter escaping. “Yours? I am nothing to you but a pawn in your games, an unwanted burden. Go—marry someone who is a true royal heir. That’s what you deserve.”

His fury ignited. In one swift move, he closed the distance between them and his palm struck across her cheek. The sound echoed in the silence.

“Yes,” he spat, his voice like poison. “I will marry an heir. Not some mistress’s daughter.”

Poornima staggered back, her eyes wide with shock, tears instantly spilling. His words pierced deeper than the slap. For a heartbeat, her breath caught in her throat—her deepest wound ripped open by the man who had promised to be her shield.

Her hand trembled as it touched the mangalsutra on the table. She whispered, broken, “Then you should have never married me.”

And with that, she walked past him, her steps unsteady but determined, leaving Veeresh frozen in his own storm of rage, regret, and denial.