The evening settled soft and gold around the palace. Poornima had just come up from the drawing room, where she’d been laughing politely with Sharada and Abhimanyu over trivialities of the day. She smelled faintly of spice and lemon oil—work smells she carried like armor—and when she entered the room Veeresh watched her as if the world had narrowed to the curve of her shoulder.

“You’re late,” he said, casual on the surface, but there was something like hunger behind the words.

“Month end,” Poornima replied, shrugging. “You know how it is.” She paused as she smoothed her saree, like a small ritual to put herself together. “I freshened up.”

Veeresh studied her for a heartbeat, then, almost casually, asked, “What do you think about kids?”

The question could have been thrown away, but Poornima blinked and gave a small, almost shy smile. “They’re lovely. Mini versions of us running around, chaos and laughter… it’s a beautiful thought.”

Veeresh’s chuckle was soft, a sound that had nothing to do with mockery. It was hope. “Are you... planning for kids, Mrs. Raj?” he teased gently.

Poornima’s face hardened for the first time. She folded her hands in her lap, the old wound opening raw and honest. “I’m not ready yet, Veeresh.” Her voice was steady but fragile. “I don’t know when you’ll change and hurt me again. I know you’re trying—people tell me you’re different—but that fear… it’s constant. I’m terrified my children will feel what I felt. Abandoned. Unwanted. I can’t do that to them.”

His expression shifted—no swagger, no edge—only quiet attention. Veeresh rose and crossed the room until he stood in front of her. He didn’t take her hand without asking, but he kept his presence close enough that she could feel the warmth from him.

“Then I’ll give you time,” he said, low and honest. “I won’t pressure you, and I won’t make this a demand. No timelines. No ultimatums. Only promises.”

Poornima’s lashes fluttered. “Words, Veeresh.”

He nodded, as if he had been waiting for that; she had every right to say it. “Yes. Words.” He swallowed and kept going. “And actions. I’ll build proof you can see. I’ll show you at home—small things. I’ll show you in public—respect, protection, no humiliation. I’ll show you in business—support, not dominance. I’ll make sure your restaurants and hotels are untouchable. If you want space, I’ll give it. If you want me to step back, I will step back and prove my presence by what I do, not by what I say.”

Her throat tightened. “What if you fail?”

“You’ll tell me,” he answered. “I’ll accept the pain I deserve and I’ll fix it. I won’t hide. I’ll tell you everything—my moves, my mistakes, my past—no secrets. And if you ever feel unsafe—truly unsafe—you walk. I’ll never let anyone harm you or your children, and I’ll never make your home a battlefield for pride again.”

Poornima looked at him hard, searching for the old mask. For once, she saw cracks—not weakness, but the outline of an earnestness she hadn’t believed he was capable of.

“Baby steps,” she said finally, voice small. “But not promises I can’t hold you to. I need proof. Quiet, steady proof.”

Veeresh’s eyes softened until they were almost gentle. “Then start with one week. One week of nothing but proof. No sharp words. No public claims. One week of doing exactly what you ask. If I fail—leave. If I don’t—then we try the next step. Together.”

Poornima let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She nodded, slow. It wasn’t a yes to babies, not yet. It was a yes to trying—and it was everything she’d been afraid to allow herself.

He bowed his head almost imperceptibly, the gesture private and sincere. “Thank you,” he said. Then, with a lighter edge, he added, “And when you’re ready, we’ll plan those three kids of yours—two boys and one girl—exactly as you wrote. I’ll memorize their names if I must.”

She laughed, small and wet-eyed. It broke something like an icicle inside her chest. Veeresh reached out and ruffled her hair the way she once had done to him in a rare, tender mock of childhood—simple, intimate, and grounding.

That night, there were no grand declarations. There were only small promises: time given, actions pledged, and a truce forged in honesty. It was not the end of their war or the instant of fairy-tale healing. It was a beginning—the slow, careful building of trust, brick by tentative brick.