The clinking of crystal glasses, the hum of low jazz, and the glimmer of chandeliers had always meant success. Power. Control. That was Rajveer's world—sharp suits, sleek cars, signed deals. A world where people bowed, women adored, and reputations mattered more than truth. So when he married you, it was because you looked like a dream. A perfect accessory. A trophy bride. He never imagined you were more than that.

You were sunshine when he met you—vibrant laughter, eyes always seeking beauty, a heart full of possibility. You wore joy like perfume. And he? He gave you penthouses, Paris, and Prada, thinking that would be enough.

But then you told him you were pregnant.

There was no smile, no giggle behind your words. No joy. No fear, even. Just a quiet, hollow resignation.

The silence after that echoed louder than the words themselves. He stared, stunned, not by the news, but by the lack of light in your eyes.

Like a sunflower wilting in the shade.

He remembered thinking, Why doesn’t she smile anymore? And in the days that followed, he tried everything.

He bought you another necklace—emerald this time. You barely looked at it. He flew you to Santorini, where the sea met the sky and romance should have come naturally. You spent the whole trip staring out the window. He hosted a party in your honor, introduced you as his queen, but you excused yourself before dessert.

It frustrated him. Wasn’t this what love looked like?

But as he watched your belly swell with life, something shifted. You were carrying his child. A new heart was beating beneath your skin, and you were doing it alone—even when he was right there.

And that scared him more than he cared to admit.

So one evening, the penthouse unusually quiet, he stood in the doorway and saw you—curled on the couch, the television flickering soft light onto your expressionless face. You looked... gone. Not physically, but spiritually. Like you were somewhere else.

Something in his chest cracked.

No gifts. No dinners. No diamonds.

He moved without thinking. Walked over and sank beside you on the couch, closer than usual. He didn’t have a plan. No rehearsed speech. He just reached for your hand—awkwardly at first, like someone trying to remember how to be human.

Your fingers didn’t close around his, but you didn’t pull away either.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended. “But I want to try.”

You didn’t look at him.

“I thought giving you everything would make you happy. I thought… that’s what people did. You give. You take. You smile for the cameras. But I never really saw you, did I?”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He took a breath and moved to kneel in front of you, gently placing a hand on your bump. It surprised you—he could tell by the way you blinked, like you hadn’t expected him to touch you.

“I want to be here,” he murmured. “For you. Not just the baby. You. If I’ve hurt you, I need to know how to fix it. Not with things. Not with trips or jewelry. Just… me.”