The next morning, he was already gone. There was a sharp ache in her chest as she woke alone—the other side of the bed cold. No warm body, no whispered good morning—just the soft sounds of the house before dawn.

She sat up, running a hand over the place where he'd slept—still half-dreaming. Trying to recapture the feel of his body by her side.

He was gone. But the memories weren't. They played like a movie: last night's fierce words, desperate kisses, whispered confessions. His hands, his mouth...

She shivered as a cold draft crept through the room, sending a jolt down her spine. Dismissing the thought that lingered, she steeled herself—just her responsibilities calling. Clenching her jaw, she pulled the blanket aside and swung her legs off the bed with determination.

"Just duties," she whispered, hoping the words would turn her apprehension into resolve. She straightened her spine, smoothed her nightclothes, and walked to the window—pushing open the shutters.

Sunlight cascaded through the window, bathing the room in a warm, golden hue. Below, the house seemed to awaken, the faint sounds of life stirring in the stillness of the morning.

But as she gazed out at the empty driveway—the dust swirling softly in the wake of his departure—her fingers traced the smooth edge of the windowsill, lingering as if seeking solace in the familiar.

Duties.

That's all this is.

Yet, why did it feel as though something had shattered within her? She could never entertain feelings for an Englishman; the weight of her loyalty to her country felt like iron chains binding her heart.

For a moment longer, she stood at the window, her arms encircling herself as if to contain the turmoil rising within—her thoughts a tempest, her heartbeat a frantic drum, the forbidden warmth still clinging to her skin from his touch.

"No," she breathed fiercely into the hushed room, her voice a quiet defiance that cut through the tense air. "I won't."

Her country had bled under men like him—arrogant lords who took what they desired, wielding power like a weapon. And he was one of those men. A British lord, his sharp tongue capable of slicing through pretense, and hands that seemed to grasp at far more than mere possessions.

Yet...

He hadn't treated her like an object to be claimed the night before. He'd kissed her as if she were a lifeline, his desperation evident, as though he were drowning and she was his last breath.

And that frightened her more than anything she could name. With a firm resolve, she turned away from the window, her jaw clenched with determination.

"This is duty."

"This is nothing," she replied, her eyes blazing with a fervour that challenged her resolve.

"I do not care for him," she declared, each word a lie wrapped in the armour of loyalty—a desperate prayer masquerading as defiance.

But deep beneath the layers of pride and patriotism, in the hidden chambers of her heart...

A single truth pulsed quietly and insistently:

The heart doesn't always seek permission before it begins its slow, inevitable break.

2 weeks later

Theodore was trapped in a tedious cycle of endless meetings, paperwork, and negotiations. Each moment stretched painfully on, leaving him in a state of agony.

He knew he should focus on work and strategy, yet his thoughts drifted to her—the sparkle in her eyes, the sound of her laughter, the silky strands of her hair gliding through his fingers.

With a frustrated huff, he tossed a document aside, the sound breaking the oppressive silence.

This was why he had left: to clear his mind and forget her. Running a hand through dishevelled hair, he stared at the disarray of files in front of him. Two weeks had gone by, and not a single day had passed without her name weaving through his thoughts—subtle, persistent, and impossible to escape.

He told himself that distance would be his solace, that being miles away from their frigid mornings and heated nights would rebuild the walls he'd let crumble.

Instead... he found himself unravelling.

She had insisted she would never want him, that their bond was merely a matter of duty.

But if that were true, why did she kiss him back? Why did her breath hitch at his touch, as if the world had faded away and it was just the two of them?

"Because you're her husband," a bitter voice whispered in his head. "Not the man she loves."

He clenched his jaw and poured himself a drink—whiskey, neat. Downed it in one go.

The truth was simple: he couldn't stop wanting her.

Even now.

Even knowing she didn't feel the same.

Especially knowing it.

Here in the mansion, Siya was feeling tired lately. She sleeps a lot

She found herself sleeping more than usual—long, deep naps that pulled her under like tides. Even the maids noticed.

"Ma'am, you've been resting so much lately," Mari, the head maid, said gently one afternoon, placing a cool cloth on her forehead. "Are you unwell?"

"No," Siya murmured, voice soft. "Just... tired."

But it wasn't just weariness that consumed her.

It was the silence—the heavy stillness of the mansion that now felt haunted by his absence. Every room seemed to amplify the emptiness, and she would strain to hear the sound of his footsteps or the playful jabs in his voice.

Then shame would flood in.

He was the enemy—a British lord, a living reminder of everything she was taught to resist.

So why did missing him feel like an essential part of her existence?

She curled into the untouched sheets on his side of the bed, whispering into the dark, "I don't care..."

Even as her heart betrayed her, crying out otherwise.

2 more weeks later

Siya made her way to her parents' house for the wedding, hoping the familiar surroundings would help her escape the weight of her thoughts, if only for a little while. The days leading up to the event were a whirlwind of activity, filled with laughter, vibrant decorations, and the clinking of glasses, yet beneath the surface, a persistent unease lingered.

As the date of his return drew nearer, Siya began experiencing unsettling symptoms—mornings became a struggle as she battled waves of nausea and bouts of vomiting. It was a physical manifestation of the turmoil brewing within her as she grappled with her emotions.

The wedding itself felt like a dizzying dream; the air was thick with the mingling scents of flowers and festive foods, while bright colours danced around her in a chaotic symphony of jubilant celebration. She was surrounded by friends and family, all sharing in the joy, but even among the laughter, Siya felt like an outsider, wearing a mask of forced smiles. For those few fleeting days, she almost managed to escape the suffocating silence that awaited her back at the mansion, but as soon as the ceremony concluded, the impending reality loomed larger than ever.

But now—back in her dimly lit room early one morning—she knelt beside the bed, her body trembling like a fragile leaf hanging onto its branch. The weight of realisation struck her with the ferocity of a thunderclap.

Nausea roiled in her stomach, and the dizziness spun her surroundings into a blur. She could taste the metallic tang of bile rising in her throat, sharp and bitter.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she hastily wiped her mouth, trying to rid herself of the taste.

No.

Not again.

She began to mentally tally the days, each one dragging her breath into a tighter knot, her heart racing with the dread of what those numbers might mean.

Too late.

Too many signs had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand—too many stolen moments of rest disguised as grief, too much exhaustion misinterpreted as mere boredom.

Her heart thudded violently, not from an illness that lingered at the edge of her awareness but from a tempest of fear... and something else lurking in the shadows.

Hope?

No. It couldn't be.

With a light, trembling hand, she pressed against her abdomen, as if she could probe the truth hiding within. She whispered into the stillness of the room, her voice barely breaking the silence:

"...It can't be."

Yet deep down, beneath layers of duty and defiance, something stirred...

She felt it deep within—an undeniable truth she could no longer ignore. As she lay in bed, taking a rare nap on the fifth day of that chaotic week—only two days left until his return—she tried to brush off the morning nausea as mere stress.

But with each passing day, the reality became clearer:

She was pregnant.

Her fingers traced the gentle curve of her belly, dread settling in her chest. What would he say when he walked through the door in two days? Would he be excited or overwhelmed? The thought consumed her as she prepared for the life-altering moment ahead.

How would he react? Maybe he would not want the child, or maybe he will be happy. But do I want this child? This child will cage me more to him. Oh, Maa Durgaa, why did you write my destiny so complicated? Her fingers pressed gently into her stomach—still flat, still secret—but already changing everything.

This child... a part of him. A part of her. A life born from fire and duty, from hatred and something too fragile to name.

She closed her eyes, whispering to the silence:

"Cage me more..." Her voice trembled. "Or bind me closer?"

Would this child be a chain? Or... a bridge?

She thought of his face—the anger, the pride, the way his voice softened when he didn't think she was listening.

What if he truly desired this child?

What if he cradled her belly in his hands, his gaze ablaze with a fierce intensity—not out of possession, but from a deep, pure love?

Her breath caught in her throat.

And then came the more terrifying thought—what if she longed for him just as deeply?

"Mother Durga..." she murmured, tears slipping down her cheeks and soaking into the pillow.

"Why grant me strength if it only weakens my heart for him?"

Outside, the wind began to stir.

A storm was on the horizon.

And so was Theodore..

"Her hand trembled over her stomach, the secret growing inside her louder than any vow she had ever spoken."

How do you think he'll react when he finds out? 👑🔥

Will this child unite them ❤️ or destroy them? ⚔️