She drifted in that fragile, hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, where dreams still lingered but reality pressed lightly at the edges. The bedroom door cracked open, letting in a sliver of movement, a subtle shift that pulled her senses gently awake. Half-conscious, she knew he had moved to the washroom, perhaps changed into his night pants; the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet footsteps on the polished floor, all gave her an almost intimate awareness of him, without needing to see.

A faint turning of pages reached her ears—the rustle so familiar it might have been the report she had left earlier on the tea table. Her eyelids fluttered, wanting to close, but then she felt him: the presence sliding closer just beside her, the heat of his bare, she was feeling through thin fabric of her night gown. His hand found its way to her belly, brushing over the curve with a tenderness that made her heart tighten and relax all at once. As he shifted the covers over them, cocooning them in soft warmth, a tiny kick startled her, followed by another—insistent, playful, insistent enough to make a soft hissed escape her lips. She pressed her eyes shut, willing the fluttering aches to settle, but her baby had its own plans.

He leaned slightly closer, his voice low and steady, carrying that quiet concern that always made her pulse soften. “What happened? Tum thik ho?”

She shifted on her back, nestling into the softness of the pillows, eyelids heavy with lingering sleep. Her voice came out barely above a whisper, a murmur caught between exhaustion and comfort: “Hmm…” She wanted nothing more than to surrender to the pull of sleep, letting the world and its little worries dissolve into the quiet darkness around her.

He didn’t press further, removed his hand from her belly, simply letting her rest, the gentle presence beside her enough to ease the restless fluttering inside. The silence that settled was warm, filled with unspoken care.

Just as she was beginning to sink fully into sleep, a sudden, tiny thump jolted her slightly—a soft, insistent kick from within. She let out a quiet, sleepy sigh, pressing a hand over her belly, feeling the gentle insistence of her little one.

He noticed immediately, his hand moving to cover hers, fingers brushing over the small curve protectively. “Still restless, huh?” he murmured, his voice a soft murmur in the dim room.

“He’s kicking,” she murmured, a whisper barely carrying through the quiet room now making her frustrated.

He bent closer, lips brushing her rounded belly with the lightest pressure, a kiss full of wordless affection. “Good night, bachha,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, threading warmth through the dimly lit room. “Now sleep quietly, don’t disturb mamma, okay?” His fingers traced gentle circles, a soft rhythm that seemed to ease the restlessness within her. The sensation of his hand, steady and sure, brought a quiet comfort she had not realized how deeply she craved.

She shifted slightly, trying to find a position that would soothe both herself and the tiny life pressing impatiently from within and in this process his hand was not on her belly. And the kicks resumed, playful and persistent, and she muttered softly in exasperation, “Are yaar…”

“What happened?” he asked quietly, his own voice a soft anchor in the darkness, his hand brushing against hers. “Is she kicking again?”

Without answering, she took his hand, placing it gently over her stomach. Sliding closer, she let the warmth of him seep into her skin, her hand over his on her belly. The rhythmic pressure of his palm, his steady breath in the crook of her neck, the unspoken reassurance in his presence—all combined to calm the tiny flutters that had refused to settle.

A wave of serenity washed over her, fatigue and tension melting in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Slowly, the day’s worries, the aches of her body, and the restless fluttering gave way to surrender. The soft darkness of the room wrapped them in its embrace, and at last, sleep claimed her completely, carrying her and her child into its gentle, undisturbed quiet, with him close enough to be a constant, comforting warmth at her side.

The morning sun spilled softly through the curtains, catching the gentle folds of her light pink saree as Niyati moved through the quiet halls of the Rathore mansion. The warmth she had grown accustomed to during the night was gone, leaving only a faint echo of his presence lingering in the room. She glanced at the clock—8 a.m.—and a small sigh escaped her lips. He would already be lost in the relentless rhythm of his work, leaving her to navigate the morning in the hush of an empty house.

Breakfast was quiet, almost lonely, though the aroma of fresh coffee in the air. Everyone else had left for work and college, leaving her in the calm hush of domestic stillness. Her mother-in-law appeared then, a gentle smile softening her eyes. “Are you coming with me to the studio today?” she asked. Niyati’s chest lifted slightly with anticipation. Painting had become more than a pastime; it was a sanctuary where her thoughts could flow freely, where colors and brushstrokes offered a quiet liberation she had never known during her childhood.

It had always been there, tucked quietly at the edges of her childhood—a love for color, for the slow dance of brush on canvas. But as she grew, the weight of expectation settled like a stone on her shoulders. Good marks, high ranks, the unspoken pressure to achieve—each demand pushed her further from the easel. Painting became a distant thing, a forgotten indulgence she promised herself she’d return to “someday,” though she never truly believed she would.

Yet life, with its quiet twists, had other plans. Marriage, which she had once imagined might close doors, opened one she hadn’t dared to dream of. What she had once abandoned had found its way back to her, as if destiny had patiently waited for the right moment.

God—or fate, or something beyond words—had written this chapter for her, and it was better than anything she could have designed herself. The contentment she felt here was deep and steady, a happiness that filled not just her days but the quiet spaces within her heart. She was where she was meant to be.

She remembered his condition, when he asked to meet her. He looked at her evenly, then spoke with the quietly measured tone she had come to recognize as final. “If you want to work after marriage, you may — but it will be in my office. That is the condition.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Before you answer, understand what I am asking for. I want a simple life: marriage, children, loyalty. I won’t promise to love you in the way women in novels speak of love. I am a man of duty and business; my work comes first. I won’t be the sort of husband who sits for hours talking about nothing. I won’t dote. I want no drama from your side also. If you expect constant attention, I am not the man for you. I am telling you this beforehand because I will not bear if you go against me, and if you still want to do it then you will not like consequences.” Her breathing too shallow. She was listening but was feared also. What is she stepping into?

His voice hardened only briefly. “Do not mistake me — I will not tolerate lies, disloyalty, or interference with my work. If you choose against this, you must tell me plainly. If someone is forcing you into this marriage, say so; I will not let you be pushed. But if you say ‘yes,’ then say it freely. I want you — your body, your mind, your soul, your loyalty — without theatrics. I will not tolerate any drama like I don’t want physical relation; I don’t want children; I want to work; you can’t cage me like this. so think wisely. Don’t take my words lightly. And if you choose this marriage then I will always be loyal to you. There will be no other woman in my life. I cannot promise fairy-tale affection, but I will stand by you when it matters.”

He finished quietly, “Take two days to decide. Don’t say yes out of pressure. If that is the case then inform me, I will handle it and no one will question you. Think, and then tell me your answer.”

Fate, or perhaps her mother-in-law’s quiet foresight, had opened a new door. The art studio was a luminous world of brushes, vibrant paints, and sunlit canvases. Here, she could create, imagine, and even contribute to something larger—the NGO her mother-in-law ran to help children with education and basic needs.

She in first few visits, just watch her but her heart was telling her to pick the brush and paint something. She controlled herself. but when her mother-in-law noticed the way, she noticed small details in her painting then asked her why don’t you paint. You have the eyes of artist, her mother-in-law said. And encourage her to give it a chance. It was so many years, she got emotional before drawing her mind was not working, what should I draw, she thought to herself. Nothing was coming in her mind. Her hands were not moving. Her first strokes had been timid, hesitant, but guidance came in gentle gestures and quiet encouragement. Her mother-in-law taught her not only techniques but patience, discipline, and the courage to express herself. Niyati’s confidence bloomed slowly, each painting a quiet victory. The exhibitions they hosted together, the careful planning, and the knowledge that her work now helped children brought a sense of purpose she had never expected.

Hours spent in the studio became a ritual, a sacred rhythm she cherished. Her bond with her mother-in-law deepened with every shared idea, every careful correction, every approving glance. Her kindness, skill, and unwavering support were a light Niyati clung to, and in return, she gave her devotion, curiosity, and growing admiration.

It takes her too much time to get free with person or make friends. If you spend time with her then only, she can talk more of heart to you. But it not the case with her husband. He didn’t have time and she can’t even demand it.

Pregnancy often slowed her steps, the ache in her legs or the sudden fatigue reminding her of her limits, but she tried to go as often as possible. Every visit brought joy, fulfillment, and a sense of accomplishment. Each brushstroke that contributed to the NGO’s funds filled her with a quiet pride and an inner glow, a happiness that was as much about creation as it was about giving back.

Even after leaving the studio, the feeling lingered—warm, deep, and steady, a reminder that she could weave her passion and purpose together. Painting was no longer just an escape; it was a bridge to fulfillment, to helping others, and to discovering the depths of her own potential. Niyati smiled softly, running a hand over her belly, thinking of the life growing inside her and the life she was shaping outside it, and felt a serenity she hadn’t known she could feel.

After a long, fulfilling day at the studio, Niyati returned home, her body heavy with the pleasant ache of fatigue. She got fresh, washed the traces of paint from her hands, and made her way downstairs. The jug in her room had run dry, and she had asked the maid for water.  When her eyes fell on the familiar sight in the sitting area—her mother-in-law, seated with his chaachi, in quiet conversation. Aadhya lounged nearby, her laughter lighting up the otherwise calm evening.

Drawn to the warmth of their presence, Niyati joined them and sat on the couch beside Aadhya. The talk was light, everyday chatter that made her feel included, woven gently into the family’s rhythm. Then Aadhya turned suddenly toward her, her eyes brimming with excitement and asked,
“Bhabhi, kal Sunday hai… kahi bahar chalein? Shopping, maybe?”

Niyati opened her mouth to refuse politely—her legs were already sore, and she knew a long day of walking would only leave her in pain. But before she could answer, her mother-in-law’s voice cut in with cheerful agreement.
“Haan, achha idea hai. Aur baby ke liye bhi shopping kar sakte hain.”

The moment the words reached her ears, Niyati’s reluctance dissolved. The thought of buying little things for her child, of preparing tangibly for the tiny life within her, brought an instant smile to her lips. Her earlier exhaustion melted into anticipation, her heart swelling at the thought.

They spent some more time chatting, sipping fresh juice, sharing small jokes and easy conversation that made the evening feel lighter. Soon after, her mother-in-law and chaachi rose, moving toward the kitchen to check on dinner arrangements. “Tum upar jao, rest karo,” her mother-in-law reminded gently.

Niyati nodded and, with a quiet smile lingering on her face, made her way back to her room, her mind already playing with images of tiny clothes, soft blankets, and toys she might choose tomorrow.

She had her dinner with everyone and came to her room. Night settled over the mansion like a soft, velvety shawl. Niyati lay on her side, the sheets cool against her skin, one hand resting over the gentle swell of her belly. Her first thoughts, as always, drifted to the baby—a quiet warmth, a tiny heartbeat echoing inside her. A faint flutter answered her touch, and for a moment she smiled in the darkness.

But as the house grew silent, her mind refused to rest. Memories of her life before and after marriage rose like tides she could not hold back. She had said yes to this marriage with a steady heart, understanding every condition he laid before her. She had wanted loyalty and promised her own in return. In that first meeting he had spoken more than she expected, his voice even and assured, and she had believed those conversations would continue. But that was the longest and normal conversation they had in this10 months of marriage. Ten months had passed since their wedding, and no talk since had lasted as long.

She had never imagined him so consumed by work. Business was his world, and she had accepted it in theory, but reality felt colder. He left before dawn, sometimes earlier, returned when the night was deep, and often missed family dinners without a word. Sometimes don’t even inform her about his whereabout if he goes to another city for business. She understood ambition—her own brother’s company had taught her how relentless success could be. She knew life is not fairytale. We need to work hard for our success. But understanding did not quiet the ache.

About a career of her own, she had never dreamed of waking at sunrise to rush to an office and work for someone and under someone. Her heart was in her home; working for her brother had been duty, not desire. She had agreed to his conditions easily, knowing she wanted children most of all. Marriage to anyone else would not have changed that. And she had never believed in fairytales; she did not need a man by her side every moment. But she had not expected this—a distance so wide it sometimes felt like they lived in parallel worlds.

A single tear slipped free, tracing a cool path down her cheek. She brushed it away, frustrated with herself. She knew the reality of the world: empires required attention, positions required vigilance. He shouldered that weight with a discipline few men possessed. And yet…she longed for more. Just once, she wanted him to come home early, to sit beside her at a clinic appointment, to speak of their future or even share the burdens of his work. She was not naïve—she would listen, she would understand. But he held everything so tightly, never speaking of problems or triumphs. One goal met only led to the next; victories were never celebrated, only replaced by greater ambitions.

She sighed into the dark, the quiet of the room pressing close around her. This was not the life she had pictured, no matter how carefully she had agreed to every condition. She had fulfilled each request he made, offered everything he demanded, her loyalty, body, soul mind; and learned to silence her own hopes on their first night only—giving him acceptance instead of disappointment.

Yet she had never expected this coldness from him. His words, when they came, felt rationed, as if conversation itself were a tax he grudged paying. He speaks like he is paying tax on it. Eight months of marriage had settled into a rhythm as unyielding as stone. There was physical intimacy, yes, since first night—he approached their nights with an intensity that left her breathless—but what of the softer bond she craved? In those early weeks she rarely had the strength to match his energy, his need for physical intimacy was too much. While he seemed to run on a few hours of sleep. She needed proper sleep of at least 6 hours which she barely got in start. Still she never complained, only found relief when her monthly cycle offered a pause. Due to pregnancy, she was able to sleep more time.

Now, from last month into her pregnancy, even that part of their marriage lay dormant. Yet the deeper ache remained: understanding. How could she weave any true connection when he spared not even a sliver of his day for her? Without shared moments, how could their hearts ever meet?

When, just five months later after marriage, she discovered she was nearly two months pregnant, joy had blossomed through her anyway—a bright certainty that love could grow even in quiet soil.

Still, her heart wanted more. To sit with him, to share when she fell first kick of their child, what she like in him, what kind of future she wants, even a few unguarded minutes, to feel the weight of his presence beside her not just at night but in the rhythm of their days. That simple wish lingered as her eyelids grew heavy.

The baby shifted beneath her palm, a small, comforting movement. Niyati breathed in, letting that gentle reassurance lull her. With a final, weary sigh, she surrendered to sleep, carrying her unspoken longing into her dreams.

***