And then she closes the door softly, leaving me standing there like an idiot—one hand on my cheek, my mouth curving helplessly into the biggest grin of my life. She kissed me. My wife kissed me.
CHAPTER 17
A Jackpot
POORVI
I curl tighter into myself, tugging the blanket higher as though it can shield me from the dull ache twisting in my stomach. It’s early morning—the faint light seeping in from the curtains tells me so—but I can’t bring myself to move. My body feels heavy, my lower back throbs, and each wave of cramp pulls me deeper into this cocoon of silence.
Of course, it had to be today. My second day. Always the worst. Always the one I dread.
I try to steady my breathing, reminding myself that this is nothing new. I’ve been through this before. I’ve endured it silently in my own house, with no one noticing, no one asking. I can endure it again here.
But the knock on the door undoes all my resolve. It’s gentle, but it carries his voice. “Poorvi?”
My heart stumbles, as if it, too, is startled. I shut my eyes tightly, wishing he’d go back to his routine. He has work. He has meetings. He shouldn’t be here. Not with me like this.
The door creaks open, and I know he hasn’t listened. He never listens when I try to hide.
His footsteps approach, slow, deliberate. I feel the mattress dip slightly as he sits on the edge. “Why didn’t you come down for breakfast?” His voice is low, concerned, not demanding.
I swallow, pressing my lips together. If I say nothing, maybe he’ll—
His hand brushes the blanket near my shoulder. “Poorvi, talk to me. Are you unwell?”
Reluctantly, I push the blanket down enough to see him. He’s leaning closer, his brows drawn together, his gaze searching my face as though I’m made of glass he’s afraid to crack.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, even though the dull ache in my stomach makes the lie tremble on my tongue.
He doesn’t believe me, of course. His frown deepens, his eyes soften. “You don’t look fine.”
I sigh, shifting awkwardly. “It’s just… my second day.”
For a moment, he blinks, uncomprehending. And then realization dawns, flickering across his face. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look uncomfortable the way most men do. He only leans in further, voice gentler. “Your second day?”
I nod, embarrassment heating my cheeks. “My period. The second day is always the worst.”
There’s a pause. For a fleeting second, I wait for him to say something awkward, maybe brush it off like others always did. But instead, his expression hardens with quiet determination. “What do you need?”
That simple question knocks the air out of me. No one has ever asked me that before.
“I’ll manage,” I say quickly, trying to push myself up. “You should go to work. This happens every month. I’m used to it.”
His hand presses gently on my shoulder, urging me back against the pillows. His gaze pins me in place, unyielding. “Well, get un-used to it.”
My eyes widen.
“Because from now on,” he continues, his voice steady but soft, “I’ll be taking care of you every month. You come before everything else, Poorvi. Work can wait. You can’t.”
The sincerity in his tone makes my chest ache worse than the cramps. I look away, blinking hard. “Vihaan, you don’t have to—”
“But I want to.” His interruption is firm, final.
He doesn’t give me room to argue. Instead, he rises and disappears briefly, only to return with a hot water bottle. He must have asked someone from the staff quickly, though he carries it himself, as if he wouldn’t let anyone else do it.
“Lift the blanket,” he says quietly.
I hesitate, but the look in his eyes leaves no space for pride. I shift, and he slips the warm bag against my stomach. The heat seeps into me slowly, easing the sharp edges of pain. My eyes flutter shut in relief.
