Chapter 20

The Silence Between Floors

Five months into her pregnancy, had begun to move slower, carefully, one hand always resting on her belly as if shielding the little life inside from the world’s harshness. The Raisinghania mansion was vast, luxurious, echoing with servants’ footsteps and polite conversations — yet for her, it often felt like a beautiful cage filled with silence.

Every month, she went for her hospital checkups. Ajay Raisinghania insisted on sending a car. Mrs. Raisinghania packed fruits and reminded her about medicines. Everything was taken care of — except the one thing she quietly longed for.

When the doctor smiled and asked, “Your husband didn’t come?”

Her throat would tighten.

She could not say Akash Shekhawat — because he was gone.
She could not say Veeresh Raisinghania — because he had drawn a boundary around this marriage the very first night.

So she would lower her gaze and say softly, “He is busy.”

Busy.

Such a small word to hide such a heavy truth.

Sometimes, after hearing her baby’s heartbeat, she would sit alone in the corridor for a few minutes, letting silent tears fall. Not because she was unloved — Ajay treated her with warmth, Mrs. Raisinghania cared genuinely, and Inayat filled her days with laughter — but because the man who had tied the mangalsutra around her neck had never once stood beside her as her husband.

Two months.
Two entire months since he truly looked at her.

He lived upstairs in his penthouse.
She lived downstairs, carrying his name.

And somewhere in between those two floors… was a silence neither of them crossed.

—

Inayat had become the light in her routine. The little girl clung to her naturally — waking up beside her, eating with her, asking endless questions about the baby.

“Mumma, will baby call me didi?”

“Yes,” Poornima would smile, stroking her hair. “And you must protect baby.”

Inayat would nod proudly, wrapping her small arms around Poornima’s waist.

Poornima had started taking her to school herself. Sometimes they returned in an auto instead of the luxury car. Sometimes they stopped for roadside corn or pani puri. Sometimes they simply sat in the park watching other children play.

She was giving Inayat something simple. Something real.

And she didn’t know that someone was always watching.

—

Upstairs, behind tinted glass, stood with a cigarette burning between his fingers, his jaw tight.

He had not abandoned his responsibility.
He had just distanced himself from his weakness.

He ensured her hospital bills were cleared before she arrived. He instructed doctors to give her the best care. He had men follow discreetly to ensure her safety. He watched Inayat’s school gate from inside his car more times than he admitted to himself.

He saw Poornima kneel down to Inayat’s level while talking to her.
He saw her laugh freely with her hair loose in the wind.
He saw her buy cheap bangles from a roadside stall and let Inayat choose colors.

She was teaching Inayat kindness. Simplicity. Strength.

The very things he had buried inside himself long ago.

“I promised Akash I will protect her,” he muttered, crushing the cigarette. “Protection. Not attachment.”

But every time Inayat called her “mumma,” something inside him shifted.

He had grown up in a house filled with power, money, strategy — not warmth. He never had time to give Inayat a normal childhood. He gave her security, status, comfort.

Poornima was giving her soul.

And that frightened him.

Because if Inayat lost her someday… she would break.

And if he let himself get used to Poornima’s presence… he would break too.

So he stayed upstairs.

Watching.

Protecting.

Avoiding.

Yet every night, when the mansion fell silent, his eyes would drift toward the staircase.

And for a second — just a second — he would wonder what it would feel like to walk down.

—

One line:
He chose distance as armor, unaware that love had already crossed the line he drew.