Continues....

Dev-

He was a dedicated freedom fighter, carrying out covert operations against the British government alongside his loyal team. In a moment of desperation, he penned a letter to her, filled with urgency and hope. He urged her to bring him food and water under the cover of night, to meet him near an abandoned house that had become a temporary refuge for his group, now on the run and forced into hiding amid the chaos.

The letter trembled in her hands as she held it, the ink smudged from his hurried scrawl. The paper felt rough against her fingertips, crumpled and worn, as if it had journeyed through the shadows, collecting secrets and fears along the way.

She read the words again, each line infused with a sense of longing and danger, her heart racing at the thought of what he and his team must be enduring. The faint scent of ink mingled with the musty air around her, grounding her in the reality of their plight, while stirring a fierce determination within her.

"We are near the old stone house beyond the mango grove. At midnight. Come alone. Bring what you can."

Her childhood friend—the boy who once climbed trees with her barefoot, who whispered dreams of a free India under monsoon rains.

Now a rebel.

Now calling her—a British lord's wife—for help.

A storm brewed inside her: loyalty, fear... guilt?

And then—soft but certain—the flutter in her belly.

Not strong. Not even noticeable to anyone else.

But she felt it—the tiny flutter beneath her palm on her stomach. A secret life reminding her: things were no longer simple.

She looked out the window toward the grove where moonlight already painted silver paths on earth...

And whispered into silence:

"What do I do?" Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—fear and guilt and love battling for a way out. Was she betraying her husband if she went? Betraying her country? And this child growing inside her...

Her gaze dropped to her stomach, hands coming to rest against the life within her.

The flutter was faint, but there.

She took a deep breath, the letter crumpling in her hands.

Then, with a final look out the window, she whispered:

"I'll come."

Later that night, while Theodore slept soundly, she slipped out of bed, her heart racing with excitement and nerves. In the dim kitchen, she gathered an array of food—warm bread, jars of glistening preserves, and rich cheeses. She filled tumblers with steaming tea and creamy milk, the warmth radiating against her skin.

Wrapping herself in a heavy shawl, she stepped into the cool night. The manor loomed silently behind her as she moved through the shadowy corridors, the weight of the food a blend of comfort and burden.

Outside, the night enveloped her, stars twinkling overhead while the moon hid behind clouds. The air hummed with anticipation, sending shivers down her spine. With each step, an unsettling feeling of being watched crept over her, the trees standing sentinel like dark figures whispering secrets. She glanced around, her pulse quickening, as she ventured deeper into the night, determined to fulfil her mission.

But still... she pressed on. Towards the edge of the grove, where the old stone house waited.

The stone house rose like a phantom in the dark—empty windows like hollow eyes staring out across the grove. Moonlight painted its crumbling walls a sickly white.

She stepped inside, heart thumping, eyes straining to adjust to the darkness.

Silence.

Just the faint whisper of the night wind outside...

Until the sound of a match striking, and a single lamp suddenly flared to life, revealing a figure sitting in the corner. The lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the cracked walls—revealing Dev. Older now. Leaner. A jagged scar cutting through his brow. But those eyes—the same fierce fire she remembered from childhood.

"Siya."

He stood slowly—bare feet on cold stone—and stepped into the light. "You came."

A weak smile tugged at his lips. "Still brave as ever."

Behind him, three more figures stirred from the darkness—hungry eyes watching her, wary and tense. A boy no older than sixteen, clutching a rifle wrapped in cloth.

Dev reached out—gently took the bundle from her shaking hands.

"We're alive because of you," he said softly. "And we'll be free... because of people like you."

"Dev, I'm sorry I can't do anything else for you for our country. The irony of my fate is that I'm married to an English lord."

Dev's hand froze on the bundle. He looked at her—really looked—at the weight behind her eyes, the subtle curve beneath her sari she hadn't worn before.

And then... it hit him.

Not just the irony.

The truth.

"You're..." His voice dropped, raw with realisation, "Carrying his child, too?"

He stepped back slightly—not in anger, but in shock. His jaw tightened. The fire in his eyes flickered—between pride for his friend and something darker... disappointment? Grief?

"The enemy's heir," he whispered—but not cruelly. Sadly. "Born of a free Indian heart."

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind howling through cracks in stone.

Then Dev reached out again—this time gently cupping her face like an older brother would—and spoke low:

"Siya... you are still one of us."

"This child may have British blood... but it carries your soul."

"And if love grows within that home—"

"Let it be a bridge. Not another chain."

He pulled back—and bowed his head slightly—a warrior's salute to a woman torn between two worlds.

"Now go," he said softly. "Before someone comes for you."

Tears burned in her eyes, though she wouldn't let them fall. Not here, beneath the weight of his words—her past and future colliding in this cold, dark room.

She nodded—a single, slow gesture that spoke volumes. And when she spoke again, the words were soft, but steel:

"One day," she whispered. "I hope my child has your courage."

She held his hand and repeated what they always said (for the freedom)

He said with pride (for the freedom)

He watched her go—her figure disappearing into the dark like a dream. Silence filled the house again, only broken when he sat back down heavily, hands rubbing at his face.

One of the figures in the shadows spoke then—an older man, voice gruff with age.

"A friend like that is worth more than any army."

Dev let out a bitter laugh, eyes locked on the empty doorway.

"I just hope she doesn't live to regret it."

She finally arrived at the grand mansion, its towering silhouette looming against the night sky. As she approached her bedroom, a figure emerged from the shadows just outside her door, cigarette smoke curling lazily around him. He stood there, a casual yet imposing presence, the ember of his cigar glowing fiercely in the darkness. With each slow drag, his face remained obscured, but she could sense his gaze piercing through the night like a sharpened blade against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

He didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Just stood there, tall and still, smoke curling around him like a silent storm.

Then—

"...Where were you?"

Not loud.

Not soft.

A voice stripped bare of tone—like he already knew the answer... and was only asking to hear her say it. "I- you are awake."

He exhaled slowly—smoke curling into the dark air like a sigh.

"You didn't answer me."

His voice was quiet. Cold. Not angry—not yet. But something deeper, more dangerous: wounded.

He took another drag, the ember flaring in his hand—illuminating his face just enough to see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes held hers like he was searching for lies.

"I asked where you were."

A beat.

"And I don't need you to say 'I'm back' as if I wouldn't notice you were gone."

"I felt your side of the bed go cold three hours ago.

"I was just walking in the garden. I couldn't sleep."
He let out a low chuckle. It held no humour—just coldness. Like he didn't believe her for a damn minute.

"You couldn't sleep."

He took one last drag on the cigar, then crushed it out under his boot.

"So you thought a midnight stroll through the manor—alone—was the perfect remedy."

He stepped toward her.

"You really think I'm that stupid, angel?"

Her breath hitched. Her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat. He was close now—the space between them thick with tension and unspoken words.

When he reached out, fingers trailing down her spine like a whisper, it wasn't soft or familiar like before. It was cold, calculated. Like he was testing something... seeing how she'd react.

"You're a bad liar, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low. "Always have been. Your lips twitch when you're nervous. Your breath quickens. Your heart beats faster..."

His hand rested on her hip.

"I'm not lying."

He tilted his head—eyes dark, unreadable. His thumb moved in a slow, deliberate circle on her hip. Not comforting. Possessive.

"You're not lying?" His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now. "Then tell me—why do you smell like smoke? "

His hand slid up slightly—under the edge of her shawl—and came back with something small and brittle between his fingers.

A dried mango leaf.

And then, softer:

"The grove's been untouched for weeks."

"Unless someone went deep into it tonight..."

He leaned in until his lips brushed her ear:

"...Were you visiting ghosts... or rebels?"

"His gaze was sharper than any sword, and she had no shield."

Do you think he saw everything... or only her return? 👀

🔥 — What should she do now?