The house had turned into a theater of cruelty. Poornima sat on the cracked divan, clutching Pavan’s photograph to her chest as if the paper could hold back the world. Her breaths came in ragged waves; each sob shook her like a small, fragile thing.

Pavan’s stepmother stood over her like a vulture, voice sharp and merciless. “You and that unborn child are a jinx,” she spat, eyes glittering with cold triumph. “You’ll bring nothing but trouble to this family.” A few relatives snickered, voices full of that small, comfortable cruelty people reserve for the weak.

Poornima’s knees trembled. The insult landed like a blade across the raw place inside her. She tried to steady herself, to answer with dignity, but the words stuck in her throat. Her fingers tightened on the photograph until the edges bit into her palm.

Then Veeresh stepped forward. He didn’t speak at first — he never wasted words where force would do — but the room changed the instant he moved. All the whispers stopped. The men who had mocked him on the trading floor would have sooner denied the sun than meet the look in his eyes now.

“Poornima, come with me,” he said, voice low and final.

A chorus of snide comments rose. “She’s trapped him already—” “Just days after Pavan—” The ugly gossip wrapped around Poornima like another wound.

Veeresh ignored them. He saw only the woman in front of him — trembling, ruined, holding the last piece of the man he had lost. He crossed the room in two strides, took her by the shoulders, and pressed his lips to her hairline as if sealing some private vow. The gesture was intimate and possessive both. “Poornima Shekhawat Rathore—my wife. Anyone who dares insult her will face the consequences.”

Silence fell like a cloth. The words hung in the heavy air, impossible and absolute. Faces went pale; the stepmother’s triumphant sneer faltered into shocked outrage. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else whispered about scandal and impropriety. None could deny the change Veeresh had made with a single declaration.

Without waiting for permission, Veeresh guided Poornima from the house. She stumbled, bewildered by the suddenness of it all — by the public claim, by the burning shame, by the intrusive eyes. Before she could form protest, before she could pull away from the man who had just claimed her, she slapped him hard across the face. The slap cracked like a small thunderclap.

For a moment, Veeresh stood still — more surprised than angry. Then, the world tipped. Exhaustion, grief, and adrenaline collapsed into one terrible weight; Poornima’s knees buckled and she fainted.

Veeresh caught her as if she were the most valuable thing he’d ever held. He carried her, swift and efficient, back to his car and drove through streets that blurred under the headlights. Rathore Mansion welcomed them with its hush of polished floors and discreet servants, but nothing about the house felt ordinary tonight.

In his private wing, Veeresh laid Poornima gently on a wide bed. He removed her shoes, brushed a loose strand of hair from her temple, and for the first time allowed himself to be utterly small in front of another helpless life. At his side stood Anaya — two years old, with huge curious eyes. She had been brought in by the nanny minutes earlier and now watched the scene with solemn confusion.

Anaya stepped forward without fear and climbed onto the bed. She reached out and placed a tiny, uncertain hand over Poornima’s heart. “Mama?” she whispered, a childish question full of hope.

Veeresh crouched beside them, feeling something thrum beneath his stern exterior — a fierce, unexpected tenderness. He covered Poornima’s hand with his own, and, for a long, hollow moment, the three of them were a strange, fragile family stitched together by grief and a promise that had already been spoken aloud.

Outside, the house murmured with speculation. Inside, a quiet settled — not peace, but a brief, tense reprieve before the storm Veeresh had just invited would begin.