Epilogue
Three years later,
The Singhania Mansion, Mumbai – Early Morning
The first rays of dawn filtered through the gauze curtains of the master bedroom, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. The air was thick with the lingering scent of jasmine from the night-blooming vines outside and something else—the unmistakable musk of sex and satisfied bodies.
Akriti stirred first, consciousness returning slowly, her body deliciously sore in all the right places.
She was sprawled across Raghav's chest, their legs tangled beneath silk sheets that had been twisted into chaos sometime during the night.
His arm was locked around her waist even in sleep, possessive and protective, his other hand resting on the curve of her hip.
Some things never changed.
She shifted slightly, feeling the pleasant ache between her thighs—evidence of how thoroughly he'd claimed her last night.
Three times. No, four. She'd lost count around midnight when he'd taken her against the bathroom vanity, her reflection in the mirror showing her exactly how wrecked she looked as he'd pounded into her from behind.
Her cheeks flushed at the memory.
Three years of marriage—real marriage, not the hollow arrangement they'd started with—and he still made her blush. Still made her body ignite with just a look. Still made her crave him with an intensity that sometimes frightened her.
"You're thinking too loudly," Raghav's voice rumbled beneath her ear, rough with sleep and satisfaction.
She tilted her head up to find him watching her through heavy-lidded eyes, his hair disheveled, beard shadowing his jaw, looking absolutely sinful in the early morning light.
"Good morning," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
"It is now." His hand slid down to cup her ass, squeezing possessively. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Satisfied. Completely yours."
His eyes darkened with heat. "Keep talking like that and I'll make you even more sore."
"Promises, promises."
He moved with that predatory speed she'd never gotten used to, flipping her onto her back, caging her beneath his body. The morning sun caught the silver in his hair—just a few strands at his temples now, markers of the stress he'd carried building their empire.
She loved every one of them.
"You're playing with fire, jaan," he warned, his voice a dark purr that sent shivers down her spine.
"Maybe I like getting burned."
He groaned, his hips pressing forward, letting her feel exactly how much he wanted her. "You're going to kill me. Death by insatiable wife."
"What a way to go."
He kissed her then—deep and thorough and claiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting, possessing, reminding her exactly who she belonged to. When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"We can't," she said reluctantly, even as her body arched into his. "Yug will be awake soon. And we have the meeting with the Dubai investors at ten."
"Fuck the Dubai investors."
"Raghav—"
"Fine." He rolled off her with a dramatic sigh. "But tonight, you're mine. No meetings. No interruptions. Just you, me, and everything I've been thinking about doing to you."
Heat flooded through her. "Everything?"
"Everything." His smile was wicked promise. "Including that thing you said you'd never try."
"I never said never—"
"You said it would be too intense."
"That's not the same as never."
His eyes flared with dark satisfaction. "So you'll let me?"
God help her, she wanted to. Wanted to give him everything. Wanted to explore every dark fantasy, every forbidden desire.
"We'll see," she said, trying for mystery and probably failing miserably.
He laughed, rich and genuine, pulling her close again. "I love you. Even when you tease me mercilessly."
"I love you too. Even when you're insatiable."
"Especially when I'm insatiable," he corrected, his hand sliding between her thighs, finding her slick and ready. "Because you love it just as much as I do."
Before she could respond—before she could tell him yes, she did love it, loved everything about their passionate, all-consuming relationship—a sound came from the baby monitor on the nightstand.
Not crying. Just a soft coo. Then another. The distinct sound of their son waking up.
Raghav's expression transformed instantly—from dark desire to something softer, gentler. Pure love.
"He's awake," Akriti said unnecessarily.
"I'll get him." Raghav was already moving, pulling on pajama pants, not bothering with a shirt. "You rest."
But she was already getting up, slipping into a silk robe, unable to resist the pull of their child.
*
The Nursery
Yug Singhania was standing in his crib, gripping the rails with chubby fists, his dark eyes—exact replicas of his father's—bright with mischief and intelligence.
At eighteen months, he was already showing signs of the personality he'd inherit: stubborn, demanding, impossibly charming when he wanted to be.
The perfect combination of both his parents.
"Mumma! Dadda!" His face lit up when he saw them, arms reaching out imperiously.
Raghav reached him first, scooping him up and tossing him gently in the air. Yug shrieked with delight, his laughter filling the room like music.
"Good morning, my little king," Raghav said, pressing kisses all over his son's face. "Did you sleep well?"
"Down!" Yug demanded, already squirming.
"So polite," Akriti teased, moving to press a kiss to her son's temple. "Just like his father."
"I'm very polite," Raghav protested, setting Yug down on the changing table. "I said please at least twice last night."
"Raghav!" She glanced at their son, who was thankfully too young to understand.
"What? I did. 'Please let me taste you.' 'Please come on my tongue.' 'Please let me—'"
"Stop!" But she was laughing, her cheeks flaming.
He grinned, unrepentant, as he efficiently changed Yug's diaper—a skill he'd mastered despite initial protests that he was a crime lord, not a nursemaid.
Akriti had reminded him that he was a father first. Everything else was secondary.
He'd agreed. And proved it every single day.
Watching him now, gentle and patient with their son, she fell in love with him all over again.
"What?" he asked, catching her staring.
"Nothing. Just... you're a good father."
Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes. "I'm trying. I never had the best example."
"You're nothing like papa ji." She moved closer, wrapping her arms around both of them. "You're present. Loving. Everything Yug needs."
"Everything you both need," he corrected, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You're my world. Both of you."
"Hungry!" Yug announced, patting his stomach. "Eat!"
"Your son is demanding," Raghav observed.
"Your son is impatient," Akriti countered.
"Our son is perfect," they said in unison, then laughed.
*
The morning routine was controlled chaos.
Yug in his high chair, smearing mashed banana across his face and the tray.
Akriti trying to convince him that fruit was delicious while he shook his head stubbornly.
Raghav reading business reports on his tablet while simultaneously making airplane noises to get their son to open his mouth.
Domestic. Normal. Perfect.
The staff moved around them efficiently—Savitri had insisted they keep help for the baby, and Akriti had reluctantly agreed after three sleepless weeks of trying to do everything herself.
But mornings were theirs. Just the three of them.
Savitri entered the dining room, her face lighting up at the sight of her grandson. "There's my beautiful boy!"
Yug's face brightened. "Dadi!"
She scooped him up, banana and all, covering his face with kisses. "Oh, you've gotten so big! And so handsome, just like your father."
"God help us all if he has Raghav's ego," Akriti muttered.
"I heard that," Raghav said without looking up from his tablet.
Savitri laughed, bouncing Yug on her hip. "I'll take him for a bit. You two finish breakfast and get ready for your meeting. I'll make sure he's fed and bathed."
"Maa, you don't have to—"
"I want to." Savitri's eyes were warm as they moved between Akriti and Raghav. "You've given me the most precious gift. Let me enjoy my grandson."
After she'd left with Yug—who was already chattering away in his limited vocabulary—Akriti and Raghav were alone.
The energy shifted immediately.
Raghav set down his tablet, his eyes tracking over her body with undisguised hunger. She was still in her silk robe, her hair tousled from sleep and sex, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses.
"We have an hour before we need to leave," he said, his voice dropping to that dark register that never failed to make her wet.
"An hour isn't enough time for what you're thinking."
"Then I'll be quick." He stood, moving around the table with predatory grace. "Thirty minutes to make you come. Thirty minutes to shower and get ready."
"That's—" Her words died as he pulled her from her chair, lifting her onto the table, scattering papers and dishes. "Raghav!"
"I need you." His hands were already parting her robe, finding her naked beneath. "Constantly. It's a sickness."
"A sickness we both have," she gasped as his fingers found her core, already slick for him.
"Good thing there's no cure."
He dropped to his knees, throwing her legs over his shoulders, and proceeded to worship her with his mouth until she was biting her fist to keep from screaming, until pleasure crashed through her in waves, until she couldn't remember her own name.
Then he stood, freed himself from his pajamas, and entered her in one powerful thrust.
"I love you," he groaned, setting a brutal pace. "So fucking much. Every day. More and more."
"I love you too," she managed, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Always. Forever."
They came together, hard and fast and perfect, their bodies knowing exactly what the other needed.
Afterward, he held her close, both of them breathing hard, completely satisfied.
"We're going to be late," she murmured.
"Don't care."
"The Dubai investors—"