The room was a sanctuary of shadows, cloaked in an unsettling quiet that seemed to hum with unspoken tension. Aarav sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed yet commanding, like a king surveying his kingdom. His legs were sprawled wide, hands braced behind him, the picture of ease—but his eyes told a different story. They burned with a darkness that could not be ignored, a tempest of suspicion and something far more dangerous.
Manya hesitated in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the faint light of the hall. Two months into her pregnancy, she had imagined moments like this differently—a quiet evening, perhaps, with soft smiles and whispered dreams of the future. But the man before her was not the Aarav she had hoped for. His gaze lingered on her stomach, a silent accusation that sent a shiver racing down her spine.
“Come here, Manya,” he called, his voice low, intimate, almost gentle. The kind of tone that could lull anyone into compliance. But she knew better. There was a sharpness beneath his words, a blade waiting to strike.
As she stepped into the room, the air seemed to thicken, the space between them charged with a tension she couldn’t place. It wasn’t until she stood close enough to see the glint of metal in his hand that her breath caught, the warmth of her earlier hope dissipating like smoke.
His hand reached out, cold fingers grazing her neck, not tenderly, but with a calculated firmness. In his other hand, the blade gleamed—a weapon not just of steel but of his spiraling doubts.
“Whose child is this?” His words were soft, yet they cut through her like a thunderclap.
In that moment, the man she had vowed to share her life with became a stranger. What followed was not just a confrontation but the breaking of something sacred—a love marred by mistrust, a life destroyed by the very hands meant to protect it. And as the darkness of the room swallowed them whole, the consequences of that night would echo far beyond the walls of their fractured home.
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