Note - sorry for the short chapter
At Home (Gatha’s POV)

At home, my pregnancy glow had begun to show. Everyone said I was glowing, and for the first time in my life, I actually believed it.
Motherhood was suiting me.

I wheeled myself into the kitchen where Mom and Dadi were busy together — the two of them, legends of love and tradition, moving like a practiced duet around the counter. I joined them, laughing softly as they argued about the right amount of salt, about how “modern women” didn’t know how to handle a pregnancy the proper way.

That morning, Dr. Arundhati — an old friend of mine and my doctor — had called to check on me. She was pregnant too, and she always teased that her husband still hadn’t learned the art of dealing with a hormonal wife. I told her that Siddharth had mastered it far too well.

She laughed, and told me stories of her own struggles, how she’d get angry for no reason, and how her husband would panic every time she cried. We talked for almost an hour — about cravings, swollen feet, and the strange, beautiful pain that only women like us could understand.

After hanging up, I leaned back in my chair and felt the baby move again — a small reminder that my body, though broken in parts, was still capable of creating life.

That day was peaceful.
For once, everything felt still.

At home that evening, the house felt alive again.
Gita, Dadu, and Reva — my ever-excited mother-in-law — gathered in the living room with shining eyes and hushed excitement.

“Gatha,” Reva said, her voice overflowing with joy, “we’re planning your baby shower! You’re already eight months pregnant — we can’t delay it anymore. We’ll celebrate it in your seventh month’s name; the date doesn’t matter, only your happiness does.”

I froze, heat rushing to my cheeks. I wasn’t used to this kind of attention — not after everything that had happened. My fingers instinctively rested on my belly. I could feel the baby move, as if it already knew something special was being planned.

Everyone began talking at once — colors, sarees, sweets, music. Dadu was giving suggestions, Reva was arguing about themes, and Gita was already on her phone, calling decorators. I just sat there in the middle of it all, blushing like a complete mess, unsure what to do or say.

Then Siddharth entered.
He paused at the doorway — his eyes caught mine — and for a second, the noise of the house faded away.

He saw my flushed face, the faint smile I tried to hide, and then he turned to everyone else.
“What’s going on?” he asked, though his grin said he already knew.

Reva told him the plan in a rush of excitement.
And as she spoke, something flickered in Siddharth’s eyes — an idea. A wild, brilliant, dangerous idea.

He came closer, bent down, and kissed my forehead softly. Then his hand moved to my belly, feeling the gentle bump that carried our child.

“This baby,” he whispered with a small smile, “is really lucky for me.”

He said it with such certainty that even I believed him — though I didn’t yet know that the same day, he had decided to turn our celebration into the first step of his war against Gautam Singhania.