Chapter 29
Armaan
Six months had passed since that day in court. Six months since Judge Desai had ordered us to try to reconcile. Six months of fighting for my wife's trust, her forgiveness, her love.
And I had tried everything.
I made her breakfast every morning, even on days when she refused to eat it.
I drove her to work and back, even when she insisted she could take her own car.
I attended every single doctor's appointment, every ultrasound, every checkup, memorizing the doctor's instructions and making sure Viya followed them even when she rolled her eyes at me.
I moved her desk into my office permanently. Spent every workday with her nearby, where I could watch her, make sure she was comfortable, bring her the pregnancy pillow when her back hurt, fetch her the strange food combinations she craved at odd hours.
I held her every night. She had stopped fighting that part after the first week. Now she curled into me naturally when we lay down, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart, her growing belly pressed against my side.
We talked. About everything and nothing. About her childhood and mine. About her dreams for the future. About the baby and what kind of parents we wanted to be. About movies and books and whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
But we never talked about the one thing that mattered most. Whether she would stay. Whether she had forgiven me. Whether, when we went back to court, she would choose our marriage or choose to walk away.
I could see her softening. Could see the way she looked at me sometimes when she thought I was not paying attention. Could feel it in the way she touched me now, casual and familiar, her hand on my arm, her fingers brushing my cheek.
But I needed more than softness. I needed her faith. Her trust. Her complete and unwavering belief that I would never hurt her again.
Which was why I was currently sitting in my lawyer's office, signing papers that transferred everything I owned into Viya's name.
The company shares. The house. The investments. The cars. The bank accounts. Everything.
My lawyer had tried to talk me out of it.
"Sir, this is extremely unwise from a legal standpoint. If the marriage does not work out, she will own everything. You will have nothing."
"Good," I had said. "Then she know how much I want her."
"But sir—"
"Draw up the papers, Sharma. I want this done today."
So now I sat and signed my name over and over, watching my entire empire legally transfer to my wife's control. And I felt nothing but relief.
Money did not matter. Property did not matter. Power and status and everything I had spent years building, none of it mattered compared to her.
If losing everything I owned was what it took to prove my love was real, then I would sign it all away without a second thought.
When the last signature was complete, Sharma handed me the file of documents.
"These are her copies. You need to give them to her and have her sign the acceptance forms."
I took the file and stood.
"Thank you, Sharma."
"I hope you know what you are doing, sir."
"I do. For the first time in my life, I know exactly what I am doing."
I drove home with the file on the passenger seat, my heart strangely light despite the magnitude of what I had just done. The late afternoon sun was warm, and traffic was mercifully light.
When I arrived home, the house was quiet. Dadi was at her afternoon prayer session. Papa had gone to visit a friend. The staff was in the kitchen preparing dinner.
I went straight upstairs to our bedroom.
Viya was lying on the bed, propped up against pillows, one hand resting on her very swollen belly.
She was seven months pregnant now, and she looked it.
Her face had filled out slightly, giving her a soft, glowing beauty.
Her belly was round and prominent, stretching the fabric of her comfortable cotton dress.
But her feet were swollen, I noticed with concern. More than usual.
She looked up when I entered, giving me a tired smile.
"You are home early."
"I had something important to take care of. How are you feeling?"
"Tired. Uncomfortable. This baby is using my ribs as a punching bag."
I set the file down on the dresser and went to change out of my suit. When I emerged from the closet in comfortable clothes, I grabbed the bottle of massage oil we kept on the nightstand.
"Let me help."
I sat at the foot of the bed and gently lifted her feet into my lap. They were indeed swollen, the skin tight and shiny. I poured oil into my palms and began massaging carefully, working my thumbs into the arches of her feet.
Viya let out a soft moan of relief and closed her eyes.
"That feels wonderful."
"You have been on your feet too much today."
"I had that presentation to finish. And then Akshita needed help with the client proposal. And—"
"And you should have called me. I would have handled it."
"You cannot handle everything for me, Armaan. I am pregnant, not helpless."
But she said it without heat, her voice already relaxing as I continued the massage. I moved from her feet to her calves, working out the tension in her muscles.
The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of my hands on her skin and her occasional contented sighs. The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting everything in a warm, golden glow.
After a while, I noticed her watching me with an expression I could not quite read. There was softness there, and something else. Something that made heat pool in my stomach.
"Do you need anything?" I asked, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Yes."
"What do you need, baby? Water? Food? I can ask Mamta ji to—"
"You. I need you."
The words hung in the air between us. My hands stilled on her calf.
"Viya—"
She sat up, reaching for me. Her hand cupped my face, her thumb brushing over my lips.
"I need you, Armaan."
And then she was pulling me toward her, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that was hungry and desperate and full of six months of pent up longing.
I responded immediately, my hands coming up to frame her face, kissing her back with all the love and need and devotion I had been holding inside.
We had slept beside each other every night for six months. Had touched and held each other. But we had not been intimate. Had not crossed that line because I was terrified of pushing too hard, of asking for more than she was ready to give.
But now she was asking. Now she was reaching for me, pulling me closer, making soft sounds against my mouth that drove me absolutely insane.
I broke the kiss, breathing hard, searching her eyes for any sign of doubt or hesitation.
"Are you sure? We should check with doctor—"
"Stop talking," she whispered. "Just love me. Please, I already checked with doctor."
So I did.
I loved her slowly and carefully, mindful of her pregnant body, making sure she was comfortable, that nothing hurt, that every touch brought her pleasure. I kissed every inch of skin I could reach. Worshipped her with my hands and mouth until she was trembling beneath me.
When we finally came together, it felt like coming home. Like something that had been broken was finally being made whole again.
After, we lay tangled together, her head on my chest, my hand drawing lazy circles on her back. Her breathing had slowed, and I thought she might have fallen asleep.
"I love you," I whispered into her hair. "More than you will ever know."
She did not respond, but her hand tightened on my chest, just over my heart.
◆◆◆
The next morning, I woke before Viya and went downstairs to make her breakfast. When I returned with a tray of fresh fruit, toast, and the ginger tea that helped with her nausea, she was just waking up.
She sat up carefully, accepting the tea with a grateful smile.
"Thank you."
I waited until she had eaten a few bites, then retrieved the file from where I had left it on the dresser the previous day.
"I have something for you."
She looked at the file curiously as I handed it to her.
"What is this?"
"Open it."
She set down her toast and opened the file. I watched her expression as she scanned the first page. Confusion, then shock, then something close to anger.
"Armaan, what is this?"
"Transfer deeds. For everything I own. The company shares, this house, all the properties, the investments, the cars. Everything. It is all in your name now."
She stared at me like I had lost my mind.
"Why would you do this?"
"To prove that I am not with you for convenience or obligation or anything other than love. If you decide to leave me, if you decide you cannot forgive me, you will leave with everything. I will have nothing. Because none of it matters without you."
"Armaan, I do not want your money or your property. That is not why I—"
"I know," I interrupted softly. "That is exactly why I’m giving it to you.
Because you never cared about the status or the wealth; you loved me for who I am, not what I owned.
I want you to have everything, Viya. Even if you decide you can't be with me, I need to know you are safe. I need to know you will live a life of comfort, even if it’s a life without me. "
She was looking at the papers with tears in her eyes, her hands shaking slightly.
"I cannot accept this."
"You already have. The transfers are legal and binding. Everything is yours now."
"Then I will transfer it back."
"You can try. I will just transfer it to you again."
She looked up at me, and I could see the war happening behind her eyes. Anger and love and fear all mixed together.
Then, to my shock, she tore the papers in half.
"I do not want your property, Armaan. I never wanted any of this. I just wanted you to be honest with me. To choose me because you wanted to, not because you had to."
The torn papers fluttered to the bed between us. I stared at them, then at her, my heart pounding.
"Viya—"
Her phone rang, cutting off whatever I was about to say. She reached for it on the nightstand, and I saw the name flash on the screen. Mahesh Sharma. Her lawyer.
She answered, putting it on speaker.
"Hello, Mr. Sharma."
"Mrs. Khanna, good morning. I am calling to remind you that we have court tomorrow. The six-month reconciliation period ends, and Judge Desai will want to hear your decision."
My entire body went cold. Tomorrow. The court date was tomorrow. In all the effort of the past six months, in all my focus on winning her back, I had somehow managed to forget the deadline that had been looming over us.
Tomorrow, Viya would have to tell the judge whether she wanted to continue our marriage or proceed with the divorce.
Tomorrow, my entire future would be decided.
"I remember, Mr. Sharma," Viya said, her voice steady even though her hands were shaking. "We will be there."
"Have you made your decision? What you plan to tell the judge?"
There was a long pause. I held my breath, waiting for her answer.
"Not yet," she said finally. "I will let you know tomorrow."
"Very well. I will see you at the courthouse at ten o'clock. Have a good day, Mrs. Khanna."
She ended the call and set the phone down. The silence in the room was deafening.
I wanted to ask. Wanted to demand to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she planned to say to the judge tomorrow.
But I forced myself to stay quiet. This had to be her choice. Freely made. Without pressure or manipulation.
She looked at the torn papers on the bed, then at me, then back at the papers.
"I need to think," she said quietly. "About tomorrow. About what I am going to say."
"Okay."
"And I need to do it alone. I am going to go for a walk in the garden."
She got up carefully, her hand supporting her belly, and walked toward the door. Before she left, she paused and looked back at me.
"Thank you. For the papers. For everything you have done these past six months. Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know that I see it. I see how hard you have been trying."
Then she was gone, leaving me alone in our bedroom with torn transfer deeds and the suffocating knowledge that tomorrow, I might lose everything that truly mattered.
I did not know what she would decide. Did not know if six months of effort was enough. Did not know if she could forgive me, could trust me again, could choose to stay.
All I could do was wait.
And hope that love was enough.