The room still wore the hush of dawn, a quiet broken only by the soft hum of the city beyond the curtained windows. Shadows pooled in every corner of the lavish space—walls a rich black satin, furniture upholstered in charcoal and deep onyx. Even the morning sun, slipping in through the narrow slit of the heavy drapes, seemed to tread lightly, scattering faint ribbons of gold across the gleaming marble floor. Everything in this room whispered wealth: the carved canopy bed with its silken duvet, the sculpted vases on the console, the crystal lamp whose dim amber glow softened the darkness.

Beneath the thick duvet, she stirred. A few loose strands of hair had tumbled over her face, a chestnut curtain against fair skin that caught the weak light. The shrill insistence of an alarm finally pierced the stillness—9:00 a.m., bold and accusing. She reached for the clock with a languid arm, silencing it with a single tap.

Nine.

Her brows knit in a brief frown. The alarm for six must have been turned off. A small, knowing sigh escaped her lips. He must have done it again. She let her head sink back against the cool headboard, eyes blinking as they adjusted to the faint sunlight. Despite the long night’s rest, a soft heaviness clung to her limbs, the kind that made even breathing feel like a slow tide.

Carefully, she pushed herself upright, the duvet sliding down to her waist. One hand moved almost instinctively, cupping the gentle curve of her belly. Seven months now—round and full beneath the thin silk of her nightdress. A smile, quiet and radiant, lit her face.

“Good morning, Shona,” she whispered, her voice a tender murmur meant for the little one inside. As always, a tiny flutter responded, a playful kick that made her heart swell. She laughed softly, her smile deepening. “I love you, bachha,” she added, and another light thump greeted her palm as if in answer.

She reached for the glass on the bedside table, the water cool against her throat. Outside, the light shifted, brighter now, picking out the silver threads woven into the black drapes.

A gentle knock broke the moment.

Setting the glass aside, she slid from the bed with practiced care, bare feet sinking into the thick black carpet. The silk hem of her nightdress whispered along her legs as she crossed the room. One hand stayed protectively over her belly, the other reached for the door handle.

The soft creak of the door gave way to the warm presence of her mother-in-law Sujata. A woman around fifty, regal even in the simplest of cotton saris, stood framed in the doorway, her silver-streaked hair neatly tied back. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to her like an old memory.

“Good morning, beta,” the older woman greeted, her voice gentle but carrying the quiet authority of someone who has managed this household for decades.

“Good morning, aunty,” she replied with an easy smile.

“Freshen up and come down for breakfast,” her mother-in-law said, eyes soft but watchful. “Or shall I send it to your room?”

“I’ll come downstairs,” she answered, a reassuring curve to her lips.

A nod, a lingering glance that held affection and a touch of worry, and then the door clicked shut again, leaving the room wrapped once more in its velvety stillness.

She moved toward the washroom, each step unhurried. Cool water and the familiar routine helped smooth the edges of morning fatigue. When she emerged, the massive wardrobe gleamed beneath the filtered sunlight. Rows of expensive silks and heavily embroidered saris hung like art pieces, but she reached past them, fingers finding a soft, simple cotton. Simple. Comfortable. now, comfort mattered more than display.

She draped the sari with practiced grace, pleats falling neatly, the fabric settling against her like a second skin. A touch of kohl to brighten her eyes, light make up, a stroke of nude color across her lips—just enough to bring life to her face. She combed through her hair, letting it fall loose over one shoulder, and inhaled deeply before stepping out.

Hunger nudged at her as she walked. The lift waited with a quiet hum. She rarely used it—stairs had always been her preference—but pregnancy had changed small habits, nudging her toward caution. The thought made her smile faintly. Three floors down was a long way now.

The Rathore mansion was a world unto itself, layered like a storybook. Their private quarters claimed the third floor: a spacious bedroom, two extra rooms, his study fragrant with old leather, a hushed library, a drawing room where she sometimes watch tv, dramas mostly. And her favorite— The airy balcony with its wide, arched opening welcomed every breeze as though it belonged to the sky itself. From here, the manicured gardens below unfolded in shades of deep green and quiet bloom, a living tapestry that changed with the seasons. The swing—smooth teakwood polished to a soft gleam—hung in the very center, its gentle creak part of the evening symphony.

This was her sanctuary. At dusk, when the air cooled and the fading light draped the world in silver, she would settle into the swing and let its slow rhythm carry her thoughts. The steady back-and-forth lulled away the day’s small worries, each motion like a long, unspoken breath.

It had become her son’s favourite place as well, though he had yet to see it with his own eyes. Each evening, hand resting over the curve of her belly, she wandered out to the balcony and spoke softly to him—little stories, stray dreams, promises she scarcely knew she was making. She told him about the stars that would soon be his, the rustle of the neem leaves, and the scent of jasmine that lingered when night came helps to sooth her pain and rustling thoughts.

Sometimes, in the midst of her quiet monologue, a tiny kick would answer from within, a gentle insistence that he was listening. And in those moments, the vast house, the weight of silence, the endless sky beyond the garden—all of it felt intimate, like the world itself was leaning in to hear their private conversation.

Other family members occupied the lower floors, their lives threading through the house like quiet music. But as she stepped out of the lift, silence greeted her. The drawing room lay empty, sunlight pooling across polished wood. Only the soft clatter of utensils from the distant kitchen hinted at life.

She followed the sound. The maid looked up from the counter and offered a bright, “Good morning, Ma’am.”

“Good morning,” she returned warmly, then added softly, she never talk arrogantly or order someone “Bring my breakfast to the dining table.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The long table felt cavernous without company. She settled into a chair, palms smoothing over the edge of her sari, and waited. Soon the maid appeared with a tray that seemed to hold half a feast.

Her breath eased into a sigh. This, unmistakably, was her husband’s doing. She can’t left it unfinished. She knew the maid will tell him. She sighed and began eating. It’s not onlyfor the child she knew this.From the very start—just two days after their marriage—he had made her health his quiet mission. He’d sought a nutritionist’s plan himself, insisting the maids follow it and warning her, gently but firmly, never to skip a meal. Since the pregnancy, his vigilance had only deepened.

Bowls of fresh fruit glistened beside a plate of proteins and grains, vegetables bright with color, a tall glass of milk crowned with a thin film of cream. Some of it she loved; some she could barely swallow. But for the tiny heartbeat within her, she would eat every bite and for her husband also.

She ate slowly, dutifully, tasting the care behind every carefully chosen dish. The house remained hushed around her, a stillness that magnified the quiet beat of her own heart.

When the last sip of milk was gone, she rose and drifted toward the adjoining sitting area, sinking into the deep cushions of the couch. Silence settled like a soft shawl over her shoulders. She rested her hand on the curve of her belly, feeling again for that small, reassuring movement inside.

In the emptiness of the grand room, her thoughts filled the space—of him, of the life growing within her, of the morning that had begun in shadows and now stretched, tender and bright, before them all.

A sudden thought tightened her chest.
The appointment.

She glanced at the clock on the far wall—11:30. Her obstetrician’s appointment was at one. Last night she had mentioned it to he settled into the bed beside her. He had simply said, okay. No promise to come along, no question about the timing. And she, as always, hadn’t asked if he would join her.

He never had come with her in any appointment.

A faint ache threaded through the calm of the morning. She tried to push it aside, telling herself not to expect more than he was willing to give, but the heart rarely listens to reason.

The sound of footsteps drew her attention. Her mother-in-law entered from the courtyard, a gentle rustle of sari announcing her before the door opened fully.

“Did you have breakfast, beta?” the older woman asked, eyes scanning her face with quiet concern.

“Yes, aunty,” she replied with a small smile.

“Aaj appointment hai na?”

“Yes. At one,” she confirmed.

“Good. Get ready. We will leave soon,” her mother-in-law said, her tone practical, already making plans.

She nodded, rising from the couch. As she climbed the stairs to their room, thoughts followed her like shadows. He must have told her, like always, to accompany me, she mused. He preferred delegation, arranging care through others while he buried himself in the endless demands of business. She said, I hate you it was meant for him. But her baby kicked her and she said,  “Tumhe nahi bacha, tumhare papa ke liye tha. Tumse to mai sabse jyada pyar krti hu.” She said caressing her swollen belly.

She told herself again not to expect anything different. Yet her heart ached for the very things she kept pretending she didn’t need—his attention, his care, the kind of love that wasn’t measured in gestures of responsibility but in presence.

In the room, she moved through the motions of dressing, choosing another simple sari, light enough for the warm afternoon. A touch of kohl, a sweep of powder, her hair smoothed back. Each action was steady, practiced, but beneath the surface a quiet longing pulsed.

When she descended, her mother-in-law was already waiting near the door.  They settled in the car, the hush of the mansion giving way to the hum of the world outside. The car door closed behind them, and they set off toward the hospital, the road stretching ahead in a silence that matched the thoughts she carried within her.

The doctor’s familiar voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
“Everything is fine, but you need to gain a little more weight.”

Niyati heard the words as though they floated through a thin mist. She had heard them before—since her first appointment, when everything had still felt new and fragile. Itna toh khati hoon… abhi weight nahin badh raha, toh main kya karoon, she thought wryly, and helplessly. Only she knew that how she ate this much. He never let her skip anything. Still, the file in the doctor’s hand held proof of her effort: nine full kilos since the beginning. Each gram had come from careful meals, measured rest, and quiet discipline.

Routine tests followed, a blur of antiseptic corridors and clipped instructions. When at last they stepped back into the car, the familiar black leather seats welcomed her like a gentle embrace. She sank into them with a small exhale, one hand instinctively resting on the soft curve of her stomach.

“Do you need anything, beta? Want to go shopping or anywhere else?” her mother-in-law asked, her voice warm with an affection that never felt intrusive.

Niyati shook her head, already imagining the comfort of home. Then, almost before she knew it, a spark of mischief lit her eyes. “Ice-cream parlour chale?” she asked, her tone rising like a child’s sudden whim.

A delighted smile broke across her mil’s face. “Of course,” she said, nodding to the driver.

The parlour smelled of sugar and chilled cream, the air bright with soft music. Niyati leaned forward eagerly as the attendant offered samples. First chocolate, then pistachio, then a swirl of tangy berry. Each spoonful melted into tiny bursts of sweetness, a simple pleasure that made her eyes shine.

Just as she pointed toward a fourth flavor, a gentle but firm voice cut through her anticipation. “No, beta. Not good for health—and it’s winter. You’ll catch a cold.”

Niyati’s lips pursed into a playful pout. “Bas ek aur,” she tried, the soft lilt of bargaining in her tone.

Her mother-in-law’s eyes narrowed with mock sternness. “I’ll call Ranvijay now. Do you want me to do that?”

Defeat flickered across Niyati’s face—an exaggerated little slump of shoulders, a faint huff through her nose, as though the entire world had conspired against her. “Betrayal,” she muttered under her breath, making a face that only deepened the older woman’s quiet amusement.

“Itna darti ho usse?” the teasing came, light as a breeze but edged with something true.

“I don’t fear anyone,” Niyati answered at once—quick, but not sharp—her words laced more with playfulness than with protest. Still, warmth crept into her cheeks, a soft betrayal of the thoughts she tried to hide. Because somewhere inside, she knew her mother-in-law’s jest wasn’t entirely untrue.

Her mother-in-law smiled knowingly, the kind of smile that sees more than words will admit. “Woh to dikh hi raha hai,” she said, letting the remark linger like a gentle secret.

She didn’t fear him, not in the way fear is usually understood. Though she used to fear him so much in the start of their marriage. The way their life unfolded from their first meet, marriage then first night. She gulped. But she now understood it. It was different—his presence carried a gravity, a silent weight that shaped her every thought and movement. His eyes could say more in a glance than others managed with a thousand words. His silence often spoke louder than questions, and his actions left little space for doubt.

Though once she used to feel a kind of hesitation, a flutter of nervousness in her chest whenever he entered a room, now she had grown used to his rhythm—the quiet certainty, the unspoken rules he carried with him. The house moved around his invisible orbit, and she had slowly learned how to breathe in that gravity without losing herself.

Things had shifted in the last two or three months. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but enough for her heart to notice. He still didn’t speak much—he never had—but his way was not with words. His way was with actions: a glass of water left near her hand, the alarm turned off so she could sleep longer, the silent enforcement of her diet, the unseen instructions that made others hover around her with care.

It was not the tenderness she sometimes craved, not the open warmth she dreamed of, but it was his own language. Quiet, firm, unyielding. And slowly, against her will, her heart had begun to understand it.

Niyati said nothing, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She felt the older woman’s affection settle around her like a soft shawl—steady, reassuring, a comfort she hadn’t known she needed.

The ride back passed in a hush. Winter sunlight slipped through the tinted windows, washing the world outside in a silver blur. Niyati leaned back, palm once more over the quiet life within her, and let the gentle rhythm of the car soothe her. The taste of sweet cream lingered on her tongue, a quiet memory of laughter and small indulgence, carrying her home to the vast, familiar stillness of the Rathore mansion.

After returning home, Niyati allowed herself a few moments of quiet, sinking into the familiar comfort of the bed in her room. The soft cushions seemed to embrace her like a gentle sigh, and for a while, she simply rested, letting the day’s small excitements and subtle worries drift at the edges of her mind. She didn’t know when she fell asleep.

Soon, her phone buzzed—her sister-in-law, Aadhya, calling her for dinner. She rose slowly, her hand brushing over her belly as if checking in on the little life inside. After freshening up she made her way to the dining room. The evening meal was calm and ordinary, filled with soft laughter and the hum of family chatter. As usual, everyone was present except her husband. Niyati joined in lightly, smiling at small jokes, exchanging a few words here and there, but mostly observing the rhythm of the house—the familiar ebb and flow of voices and clinking cutlery that made even a grand mansion feel like home.

Dinner finished, she returned to her room. For a fleeting moment, she thought of the balcony swing, her favorite evening retreat. She imagined the gentle sway, the cool breeze teasing her hair, the soft rustle of leaves below. But a dull ache in her legs made her wince; pregnancy had made her limbs heavy and tender, and she knew tonight rest was more necessary than indulgence.

She placed the report carefully on the glass table beside the couch, aligning it. She knew he will check it before sleeping.

With a soft sigh, she changed into her nightgown, the cool fabric brushing against her skin, soothing the slight tension in her body. Slipping under the duvet, she cradled her belly instinctively, murmuring a gentle, “Good night, shona.”

A soft, playful kick replied, and a small smile spread across her face, lighting it in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. That little response—always so tender, so immediate—never failed to fill her with warmth. She lay there a moment longer, feeling the tiny flutters beneath her hand, the bond between them palpable in the quiet night. And then, slowly, sleep claimed her, carrying her into dreams filled with whispered promises and the gentle rhythm of the life growing within her.

***