The next morning was nothing like the usual mornings in the Rathore mansion.

There was no laughter echoing through the dining hall, no hurried footsteps of the kids running around, no playful arguments over breakfast.

 The house felt unusually silent—heavy, tense, and unfamiliar. 

Mahi had already left for school, but Atharv had refused to go. 

He had clung to his father quietly and asked to stay home, and for the first time, Advait hadn't argued.

Navya had thought of burying herself in work, hoping it would distract her mind the way it had for the past two weeks.

 But that option was taken away from her as well. 

Advait had deliberately given her a one-week suspension from office—clear, official, and unavoidable. 

It meant no work, no meetings, no deadlines. No escape.

An email from his assistant confirmed it.

She stared at the screen for a long time before closing her laptop, her chest tightening with every passing second.

Her anxiety touched the skies.

Her mind spiraled uncontrollably, throwing a thousand thoughts at her all at once.
How will I clear the debt?
What if the police get involved?
What exactly is Advait planning to do?
How will I face him after last night?
What if Atharv starts hating me?
What if he wants another mother?
What if he never talks to me again?

Each thought was worse than the last.

She hadn't seen any of them properly since morning.

 Atharv was still locked away in his room, unusually quiet. 

Advait had already left for his private home gym before she even woke up.

 She hadn't heard his voice, hadn't seen his face, and that silence only made her fear grow stronger.

Trying to keep herself together, Navya stood in the kitchen, mechanically preparing breakfast.

 Her hands moved on autopilot—cutting, stirring, setting things aside—while her mind remained miles away, trapped in worry and guilt. 

Her heart felt restless, her stomach knotted with unease.

Suddenly, the sound of approaching footsteps reached her ears.

Her body stiffened instantly.

She froze mid-motion, her grip tightening around the spoon in her hand. 

She didn't need to turn around to know who those footsteps belonged to. 

The air itself seemed to change with his presence, growing heavier, sharper.

Her heartbeat quickened as she stood there, bracing herself for whatever was about to come next.

"G-good morning..." she tried softly, her voice hesitant as she turned slightly toward him.

There was no response.

Not even a glance.

The silence that followed made her feel painfully visible and invisible at the same time.

 Embarrassment settled heavily in her chest, and she swallowed hard, forcing herself not to react. Advait moved past her as if she weren't there at all. 

He opened the cabinet with practiced ease, took out his shaker, and began preparing his post-workout drink. 

He pulled the soaked overnight oats from the fridge, his movements calm, controlled, and distant—too distant.

Navya let out a quiet sigh. 

Somewhere deep inside, she knew he was still offended by what happened the previous night.

 The realization stung, but she told herself she deserved it. 

Lowering her gaze, she turned back to the stove, choosing silence over another failed attempt at conversation.

As she dropped the dried red chilies and curry leaves into the hot oil, it crackled loudly. 

The oil splattered suddenly, and a few hot drops landed on her hand. 

She flinched sharply, a hiss escaping her lips as pain shot through her skin.

 The spatula slipped from her fingers and clattered against the counter as she rushed to the sink, thrusting her hand under running water.

The skin had already turned red.

Her breath came out unevenly as the cool water hit the burn.

 And in that fragile moment, a familiar expectation rose in her heart—uninvited, unwanted, but deeply ingrained.

She half-expected him to be there already.
A hand reaching out to stop the water and check her palm.
A gentle blow over the burned skin.
A soft yet firm voice scolding her for being careless, even if it sounded formal.
Maybe medicine being applied in silence, but with care.

Like it always happened.

But nothing came.

No footsteps.
No touch.
No voice.

She lifted her eyes slowly, glancing in his direction. 

Advait stood there, focused on his shake, his back turned toward her—as if she didn't exist at all.

 The indifference shook her more than the pain. 

She quietly turned off the stove before the spices could burn, her hand still under the water, her shoulders slightly hunched.

The sting on her skin was sharp, but it faded slowly.

The ache in her chest didn't.

It wasn't the hot oil that hurt her the most—it was his coldness.

Suddenly, the head maid walked into the kitchen and greeted them politely, her voice warm and habitual.
"Good morning, sir. Good morning, ma'am—"

She stopped mid-sentence when her eyes fell on Navya's hand still held under the running water. 

Concern immediately filled her face, and she hurried toward her.
"Ma'am, are you okay? Should I bring—"

She didn't get to finish.

A cold voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.
"Make simple poha and tadka dahi for breakfast."

The head maid froze for a second, confusion flickering across her face.

 Usually, it was Navya who cooked most of the time, especially when she was home. 

Still, she nodded obediently.
"Y-yes, sir. But let me first bring the first aid kit for ma'a—"

She was cut off again.

This time, his voice was colder, harder—almost ruthless.
"Do what I said, or you can leave. I'll hire someone else."

The words hit like a slap.

Both Navya and the head maid stiffened. 

Fear flashed in the maid's eyes; she had never heard him speak like that over something so small.

 She glanced at Navya apologetically, silently asking for forgiveness, then quickly turned toward the counter and began working, her hands trembling slightly.

Navya stood there, stunned.

So this was it.

This was the contract marriage he had been talking about.

In reality, this was how it was supposed to be—cold, distant, strictly professional. 

He had always been like this with the world.

 With her too, most of the time. And yet, today it felt different. 

Today, it hurts.

He had always been cold... but never like this.

Something was missing.

Maybe it was the quiet care.
Maybe the unspoken concern.
Maybe the humanity.

Or maybe it was the small warmth she had unknowingly grown used to over the years.

Navya let out a slow, shaky sigh.

 She turned off the tap, wiped her hand with the edge of her dupatta, and walked out of the kitchen. 

She didn't want to say anything in front of the maid. 

She didn't trust her voice not to break. Her heart already felt unbearably heavy, like it was sinking deeper with every step.

Just as she reached the doorway, a voice stopped her.

"Be ready at 8:30. We need to go somewhere."

She paused for a brief second, her fingers curling slightly, then nodded without turning back and walked away—her chest tight, her mind echoing with one thought over and over.

So this is how it's going to be now.

Her heart skipped a beat, almost stopping for a moment. 

She quietly nodded, even though her mind was already racing with endless questions.

 Where is he going to take me? His office—to force her resignation?

 Somewhere else? Somewhere worse?

She didn't ask. She didn't have the courage to.

Silently, she walked out of the kitchen and sat down in the living room, picking up the first aid box with shaky hands. 

She opened it and took out the ointment, carefully applying it to the burn on her hand. 

The sting made her flinch, but even that pain felt insignificant compared to the heaviness crushing her chest. 

Her heart hurt more than her skin ever could.

Regret wrapped itself tightly around her. 

Every word she had spoken the previous night replayed in her mind, louder and harsher with each passing second.

  Why did I say that? Why couldn't I stop myself? She wished she could take everything back—every sentence, every hurtful word.

As she gently rubbed the ointment in, her eyes lifted on their own. 

She saw him sitting at the dining table, calm and unreadable, scrolling through business news on his tablet as if nothing had happened. 

As if the air between them wasn't heavy with unspoken tension. 

That indifference hurt more than his anger ever could.

Then she heard footsteps again.

They were small, slow, and hesitant.

Her breath caught. 

She looked toward the staircase and saw Atharv coming down, rubbing his sleepy eyes with tiny fists. 

He had probably just woken up. His lips were pouty, his steps unsure, his little face still carrying traces of last night's tears.

The memory hit her like a wave.

Her chest tightened painfully. Guilt flooded her veins, sharp and overwhelming. 

She felt sick to her stomach. How could I do that? 

How could she raise her hand on that innocent little soul who had done nothing wrong? 

His only mistake was wanting her attention—wanting his mumma. 

And she had slapped him.

Her world.

Her tiny world.

She clenched her jaw, hating herself in that moment more than she ever had.

 Tears burned in her eyes as she pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to let them fall.

 She didn't deserve to cry—not after what she had done.

 All she wanted was to punish herself, in the worst way possible, for hurting the child who meant everything to her.

Her eyes stayed fixed on him, full of love, guilt, and regret—while her heart quietly broke all over again.

Atharv stopped mid-step as soon as he sensed her presence in the living room. 

His small body reacted instinctively, almost on its own—his feet turning, his heart pulling him toward her, toward the familiar warmth of her lap where he curled into every morning. 

That was his place. That was where he belonged.

But then last night flashed in his mind.

His steps froze.

The image of her angry face, the sudden sting on his cheek, the fear he didn't even have words for yet—it all came rushing back. 

His lower lip trembled. Tears burned in his eyes as he looked down at the floor, tiny fingers curling into fists. 

He felt scared. 

Confused. 

What if he disturbed her again? What if she got angry again?

He didn't want that.

So instead of going to her, he slowly turned his face away, his shoulders slumping. His eyes searched the room until they landed on his father sitting at the dining table. 

Quietly, almost cautiously, Atharv walked toward him, each step hesitant, as if he was afraid even his footsteps might annoy someone.

Navya felt it.

She felt her entire world shatter in that moment.

Seeing him choose distance over her—seeing fear where there should have been comfort—cut her deeper than anything else ever had.

 Her chest tightened painfully. 

She hated herself more than she ever thought possible. I did this. The realization screamed inside her head. I did this to my child.

Atharv reached Advait, stopping beside his chair. 

Advait sensed him instantly and looked in his direction. 

Without a word, he put the tablet aside, lifted the little boy gently, and made him sit in his lap. Atharv immediately snuggled into his father's chest, clutching his shirt like a lifeline.

For a brief second, Atharv's eyes lifted.

They met Navya's.

Her breath hitched. His eyes were glossy, scared, and unsure.

 Then he quickly looked away, burying his face deeper into his father's chest, as if hiding from her—from the fear, from the hurt, from the confusion.

Advait's hand moved on instinct, fingers softly creasing through Atharv's hair in slow, soothing strokes. 

He picked up the tablet again, trying to maintain normalcy, trying to keep the moment calm.

But then—

A small, broken sob escaped.

Advait froze.

He looked down and saw Atharv's tiny shoulders trembling, his face pressed into his chest as quiet cries shook his little body. 

His fingers tightened in Advait's shirt, as if he was afraid to let go.

Navya watched from where she sat, tears finally spilling over despite her efforts. The sight was unbearable.

 Her heart felt like it was being crushed inch by inch. 

She had not only hurt him physically—she had broken his sense of safety.

And that realization hurt more than anything else ever could.

Atharv was hurting far more than anyone could see. 

He missed his mumma—missed the way she used to smile at him, the way her eyes lit up whenever he ran toward her, the warmth of her arms that always made the world feel safe. 

But for the past few days, that warmth had slowly faded.

 Her distant behavior confused him, her irritation scared him, and the slap last night... that broke something fragile inside him.

He wanted her love back. He wanted her care, her attention, her stories, her cuddles.

But now he was afraid to ask.

What if he disturbed her again?
What if she got angry again?

Those thoughts were too heavy for his little heart.

Advait noticed his silent breakdown immediately. 

He set the tablet aside without a second thought and gently cupped Atharv's small face, thumbs brushing away the tears that refused to stop.

 His chest tightened as he looked into those watery eyes. 

He was shocked—shocked at how deeply the slap had affected him—but he understood the reason behind his tears. 

For a child who had never known fear from his mother, that one moment had shattered his sense of security.

He pulled Atharv closer, letting him cry into his chest, his hand moving slowly over his back in steady, reassuring strokes.

Navya watched all of this from a distance.

Every sob felt like a punishment she deserved.

Her feet felt rooted to the floor, her body refusing to move. 

She felt hesitant—terrified, even—to approach her own son.

 A cruel thought echoed in her mind: Do I even have the right to comfort him anymore? Or did I lose that right the moment I raised my hand on him?

She didn't know what to do.

Her mind battled with itself. 

Should she stay where she was and let Advait comfort him? Or should she go to her child, no matter what? 

Advait's presence only made it harder. 

What if he dismissed her coldly again? Worse—what if he told her she had no right over the kids because this was just a contract marriage?

That fear paralyzed her.

Tears finally escaped her eyes, sliding silently down her cheeks.

 Her fingers clenched the fabric of the couch tightly, knuckles whitening as she tried to fight her thoughts, her guilt, her fear.

But nothing could silence the ache in her heart—the ache of a mother watching her child cry and feeling unworthy of wiping his tears.

At last, she did what the mother inside her had been screaming at her to do all along.

She broke.

The moment she heard his sobs grow louder, the moment she saw his tiny shoulders shaking in Advait's arms, something inside her gave up fighting.

 This was one of the most complicated moments of one's life—when the person you need comfort from is the very person you are afraid of, or when you are forced to comfort someone you have hurt so deeply that you feel you no longer deserve a place in their world.

Her chest felt tight as if breathing itself had become difficult.

She slowly stood up, taking a shaky, uneven breath, and walked toward the dining table.

 Each step felt heavier than the last.

 When she sat beside Advait, her hands trembled slightly, but she ignored it.

 Atharv immediately sensed her presence and hid his face deeper into his father's chest, clinging to him as if shielding himself.

He thought she had come to scold him again.
For crying too loudly.
For disturbing her.

That sight shattered her heart into a million pieces.

She knew Advait was glaring at her—she could feel his anger without even looking—but she chose to ignore it. 

Nothing mattered more than the broken little soul in front of her. 

Slowly, carefully, as if afraid he might disappear, she reached out for Atharv.

 Her fingers barely touched his arm, hesitant, unsure, silently asking for permission.

But his words broke her completely.

"I'm sorry, mumma... I'll never disturb you."

His voice was small, trembling, filled with fear. 

He was terrified she would scold him again for crying, yet his hiccups refused to stop, no matter how hard he tried to be quiet.

Her vision blurred instantly.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gently lifted him from Advait's lap and settled Atharv into her own arms, pulling him close like she used to. 

His little body was stiff at first, unsure, but she didn't let go. 

She cupped his face with trembling hands, wiping his tears again and again as if trying to erase the pain she herself had caused.

"No, baby... don't say sorry," she cried softly. "Mumma is sorry. Mumma is so, so sorry."

Her voice broke as guilt crushed her chest.

"I shouldn't have behaved like that. I was wrong. I was so bad... how could I ever hurt my Atharv baby?" She pressed her forehead to his, tears falling freely now.

 "Please forgive me, hmm? Mumma is really sorry. I promise... I promise I'll never do that again."

She kissed his damp cheeks, her thumbs brushing away his tears, holding him as if she might lose him if she loosened her grip—even for a second.

(Author's note: I don't know about you, but I was in tears while writing this.😭😭)

Advait didn't interfere. 

He knew this was something only a mother and her child could heal on their own.

 Some wounds needed space, not authority.

Navya's own tears flowed freely now, no longer restrained. 

Her heart ached unbearably as she held him, the weight of her guilt pressing down on her chest. 

She pulled Atharv closer, hugging him softly yet tightly, one hand rubbing gentle circles on his back, the other holding him as if anchoring him to her. 

She focused on his breathing, whispering calming words, trying to steady his tiny, shuddering body.

He cried loudly at first—raw, broken sobs—finally letting everything out. 

It was the cry of a child who had been holding himself together for too long, desperate for his mother's warmth. 

Slowly, as her touch remained constant, as her kisses kept landing on his cheeks and temple, his sobs began to ease. 

His breathing steadied little by little.

She exhaled shakily when she realized he wasn't scared anymore.

She kept kissing his cheeks, her lips trembling, her fingers creasing his back again and again as if trying to erase the memory of last night. 

She whispered apologies over and over, each one sincere, each one filled with regret. 

She made promises—real ones—to herself and to him, promises she intended to keep for the rest of her life.

Soon, the loud cries faded, leaving behind only faint hiccups and soft sniffles.

Navya gently cupped his face with one hand, tilting it up so she could see his eyes. 

She kissed his cheeks again, her voice breaking as she spoke, "Mumma is so sorry. I promise I will never do that again. Please forgive me, hmm?"

Atharv looked at her for a moment, searching her face, then asked in a small, uncertain voice, "You're not angry at me?"

Navya smiled through her tears and shook her head immediately. "How can I ever be angry at my cute princess, my love?"

Atharv whined softly at the word princess, his brows furrowing. 

He had warned his mumma so many times not to call him that, yet she always ended up doing it anyway.

"Mummaaa," he protested weakly.

She laughed softly through her tears and kissed his cheeks again, relief washing over her completely. 

Everything felt back on track—at least this part of her world. She hadn't lost her son in this mess. He still loved her. 

He was still hers.

Holding him close, she made a silent promise to herself—

Never again.
Never would she raise her hand on any of her children.

"Sorry, baby," she whispered.

He smiled faintly, then spoke in a pouty, rough little voice, still hoarse from crying, "It's okay, mumma... just don't ever call me that again."

She nodded immediately, her lips curving into a soft smile. "Okay, my baby boo. Now give mumma a kissy," she said, pointing to her right cheek.

Atharv cupped her face with his small hands and pressed a gentle peck on her right cheek. She smiled wider and pointed to the other one. 

Without any hesitation, he leaned forward again and kissed her left cheek too. 

Her heart swelled at that simple gesture—so small, yet filled with so much trust and love.

She pulled him closer, playing with him, talking to him in silly voices, tickling him lightly until his soft laughter filled the room again. 

That sound—his laughter—felt like life returning to her. 

After a while, tired from crying and laughing both, he settled down and laid his head on her chest, his small arms wrapping around her.

In a quiet, excited tone, he began telling her about his school day from yesterday—how he had beaten all the boys in his class in running, how proud he felt, how the teacher smiled at him.

 Navya listened to every word, her fingers gently running through his hair, responding with little gasps and praises, making him feel heard again.

As the mother-and-son duo slowly patched things back together, Advait watched from a distance. 

He let out a silent sigh of relief when he saw Atharv calm, safe, and smiling again in Navya's arms. 

Without a word, he acknowledged—quietly to himself—that suspending Navya for a week had been the right decision.

Checking the time, he stood up. It was almost 7:15. 

He headed upstairs to get ready, knowing he needed to take a bath before Navya claimed the bathroom and captured it for a full hour, as she usually did.