Doctor Satish took off his glasses slowly, folding the thin frames between his fingers as he really looked at her. Her questions hung in the air between them, heavy and sharp. As a doctor, he knew he owed her answers. As a man caught between truths and power, he also knew he wasn't free to give them.

He glanced toward Sidharth.

It was a small look, but loaded—an unspoken question in the way his brows lifted slightly, the way his eyes searched the other man's face: Should I tell her? How much? Now? Sidharth met his gaze over Aarohi's head, his own expression unreadable. He gave the faintest shake of his head, almost imperceptible, but the message was clear.

Not yet.

Doctor Satish exhaled quietly and nodded, accepting the silent command.

"Sure, Aarohi," he said, turning back to her with a practiced smile. "But I will answer them later. First, you need to rest. And till then, I will attend my other patients."

His words were polite, but evasive. Before she could protest, before she could demand more, he was already stepping back. He put his glasses into his pocket, murmured something to the nurse, and left the room in a hurry—almost as if he was afraid that if he stayed one more second, the truth might slip out of him.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Aarohi let out a long, frustrated sigh and slowly lowered herself back against the pillows. Her body still felt heavy, sore in places she didn't want to think about. Her mind, however, was wide awake, racing in circles. Not one of her questions had been answered. Not one.

Sidharth moved closer, his shadow falling over her as he reached out to help her lie down fully, one hand sliding toward her shoulder.

She slapped his hand away.

"Don't," she snapped, her voice low but dripping with disgust. "Don't even touch me. You filth. It disgusts me."

The words were sharp enough to cut, thrown straight at him with all the hate she'd been holding back. Her chest rose and fell faster, anger simmering under her skin.

Sidharth looked at her.

His face didn't change. His eyes stayed flat, emotionless—dark pools that revealed nothing. No hurt. No anger. No guilt. No softness either. Just a steady, controlled calm that made it impossible to tell what was going on behind them.

"If you dare to push my hand away again, I swear I—"

He stopped.

The sentence broke off halfway, the threat hanging in the air unfinished. His jaw clenched for a brief moment, something sharp flickering through his eyes before he forcibly smoothed it away. He drew in a breath, exhaled slowly, and swallowed whatever he had been about to say.

"Don't repeat that again," he said instead, voice quieter, more measured.

Then, in a move that contradicted everything she knew about him, he lifted his hand and lightly patted her head. It was a soft, almost gentle touch, as if he were trying to soothe her, as if he had any right to.

Aarohi's eyes burned with fresh rage and disgust as she glared up at him, every muscle in her face tight.

He straightened, turned without another word, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Her angry, revolted gaze followed him until the door shut and he disappeared from sight. Only then did she allow herself to sag back against the pillow, her teeth digging into her lip as fury and helplessness twisted together in her chest.

Outside, the corridor was quieter.

As soon as Sidharth stepped out, a small pair of hands latched around his leg, tiny arms wrapping as far as they could around his large frame. The sudden tug at his pant leg made him look down.

A little boy, about four years old, clung to him.

Sidharth bent down without hesitation, scooping the child up into his arms. The boy's small fingers grabbed onto his t-shirt as Sidharth settled him securely against his chest.

He leaned in and kissed the boy's cheeks, the faintest hint of warmth touching his otherwise cold features.

"Yes, honey bun?" he said, his voice softer now—gentler than anything he had used inside the room.

The boy looked at him with big, hopeful eyes. "Papa, can I meet Mumma now?" he asked, his little voice sweet and eager.

For a brief moment, Sidharth's gaze flickered toward the closed door of Aarohi's room.

The image of her inside flashed in his mind—the way she had flinched, the way her body had tensed, the way her voice had cracked with hatred when she told him not to touch her. The memory of her nails digging into his hand while the doctor worked. The raw fear in her eyes. The way she had looked at him like he was a monster she wanted to tear out of her life.

He tightened his hold on the boy just slightly.

"Mumma is resting now," he said finally, choosing his words carefully. "But I promise we will meet her in the evening, okay?"

The boy's smile fell, replaced by a small, disappointed pout. He laid his head on his father's shoulder, his tiny fingers curling into the fabric of Sidharth's t-shirt.

"Okay..." he whispered, voice small and reluctant.

Sidharth turned away from the door then, his hand rubbing slow, absent circles on his son's back as he walked down the corridor. His face was calm again, expression unreadable.

Sidharth gently patted his son's back, adjusting his hold as the boy clung to him. "Now go home with Dadi, okay?" he said, keeping his tone soft but firm. "And don't watch too much TV, hmm?"

The kid pulled back just enough to look at his father's face, eyes wide in shock. "No, I want to stay here—" he started, bottom lip jutting out in protest.

But then he saw his father's eyes.

The warmth in Sidharth's voice didn't reach them. They were flat, controlled, cold in that way children sensed even if they didn't understand. The boy froze mid-sentence, the rest of his words dying on his tongue. A hesitant silence stretched between them.

He swallowed his protest and nodded.

"Okay," he whispered.

Sidharth lowered him to the ground, steadying him until his small feet found balance. The boy shuffled over to his grandmother—his mother—who immediately bent down and pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around her neck, seeking comfort there instead.

His mother smoothed his hair, then straightened. With one last look back toward the corridor where Aarohi's room stood, she turned and began walking away with him, his little hand held securely in hers. He waved at everyone as they passed, small fingers fluttering in the air.

Seeing Aarohi awake, conscious, and talking—even if she was confused and angry—had loosened a knot in their chests that had been there for far too long. Tanishka and Mohit exchanged quick glances, then turned to Sidharth and her parents, asking for permission to leave. Once they received it, they walked away, waving back to Aarohi's parents, whose faces were tired but visibly relieved. 

Sidharth moved toward Aarohi's parents, his steps steady, his expression composed.

"You may both go inside," he said, voice calm. "I will meet the doctor now."

Her parents nodded. Her father placed a hand briefly on Sidharth's shoulder, a gesture of quiet acknowledgment, gratitude, and something more complicated beneath. Then both parents headed toward Aarohi's room.

Sidharth didn't linger.

He walked straight down the corridor to the doctors' cabins and pushed open the door to Doctor Satish's office without knocking. The doctor looked up from his desk, where a stack of reports and scans lay open, and motioned to the chair opposite him.

"Sit," he said.

Sidharth took the seat, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs, every inch of him composed.

"So," the doctor began, leaning back slightly. "Why did you refuse to tell her?"

Sidharth's gaze lifted to meet his, cold and unwavering.

"I wish to tell everything to her by myself," he said simply. No hesitation. No explanation. Just a statement of intent edged with iron.

Doctor Satish studied him for a moment, then nodded. He pulled a file closer, flipping it open. Inside were neatly arranged reports—lab results, scans, charts, printouts. X-rays. MRI. CT scan.

"Her reports and checkups from last week," he said, scanning the pages. "X-rays, MRI, CT scan—everything is completely fine. Neurological, physical, all within normal range. She seems completely normal now. Do you find anything... suspicious?" His tone shifted more professional, clinical, as he looked up again.

Sidharth didn't answer immediately.

He paused, thinking back to the way Aarohi had looked at the people in her room. The way her eyes had passed over faces she should have recognized like breathing, only to stop in confusion. The way she had named Tanishka, Mohit, her parents without missing a beat—but faltered at others.

Then he nodded once.

"She knows everyone from before our marriage," he said, voice low and steady. "But she can't recall anyone from after. Not me. Not my mom. And I believe..." He exhaled quietly. "I believe she would not even recognize Ritvik, too."

The life she remembered stopped somewhere in the past.

The life she had built after that point—the one that involved him, his family, their son—had been erased completely from her mind.

And to her, right now, Sidharth Sisodia was not her husband, maybe he was not even her husband.

He was definitely the monster from her nightmares.

Doctor Satish nodded, his expression settling into that detached, professional calm that only years of bad news could give. "Looks like it's quite common for someone who woke up from coma after almost a year to forget some parts of their memory," he said. "But she is lucky enough to have woken up relatively soon... or else, honestly, no one knows when she would have woken up at all. And it's a good thing she didn't forget everything."

He flipped a page, scanning the neat lines of text and numbers, speaking more to himself than to Sidharth now. "Someone who wakes up from coma is really unpredictable. We don't know what they might remember, when they might gain their memory back—if they ever do."

Sidharth's eyes lifted slowly, his gaze sharpening.

He glared across the desk, his expression ice-cold, and the doctor finally realized he had chosen the wrong way to frame it. The harshness in Sidharth's stare was less about the facts and more about the way those facts felt—like a sentence.

"You mean to say," Sidharth said, voice low and tight, "she might never recall me... or my family... or anyone?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than the clinical language that had come before it.

Doctor Satish held his gaze, then nodded carefully. "That might be a possibility," he admitted quietly. "We can't rule it out. Every brain is different. Every recovery path is different."

Sidharth slammed his hand down on the glass table between them.

The sharp crack of his palm against the hard surface made the doctor flinch, his pen jerking in his fingers, the clipboard skidding slightly. The glass trembled faintly, reflecting the anger that had just exploded out of him.

"What do you mean 'huh'?" Sidharth snapped, leaning forward, voice rising. "Is there no way to bring her memory back? It's fine for me—I can wait, I can give her time. But what about my son? The child who has been waiting every single day for his mother to wake up? And when she finally did, what am I supposed to tell him?" His jaw clenched, the words grinding out. "'She doesn't even know you, Ritvik'? That's what she will say to him?"

The image of his four-year-old pressed against glass—hands on the ICU window, forehead pressed to the cold surface, whispering prayers, clinging to hope—flashed behind his eyes. The nights he had found the boy sitting outside her normal ward, curled into himself, telling her about his day like she could hear him. The way the boy's eyes would fill with tears anytime someone mentioned Mumma.

Doctor exhaled slowly, sets of his own guilt settling over him. 

He had seen it all too. 

The little boy standing against the glass door of her ICU room, then later the ward door, talking to the unconscious form beyond the glass, sometimes sobbing, sometimes whispering bedtime stories as if she could hear. He had watched him offer her food he had barely eaten, promise to be good, promise to be quiet, just please wake up.

He knew exactly how deep this cut.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said quietly, the formality heavy now. "There is nothing we can do medically to force her memory back. Sometimes, pushing too hard, trying to make her remember, can backfire badly. She might face severe mental distress, nervous damage, even regression. The safest path—maybe the only responsible one—is gentle therapy, gradual exposure, and time. We can't pressure her mind. We can't rush it."

The reality landed like a stone in the room.

Sidharth sat back, closing his eyes briefly, the weight of it pressing down on his chest. His shoulders sagged just a fraction—he was still controlled, still the man who commanded rooms without speaking, but inside, something cracked.

His son.

Ritvik, who had built a whole world around the idea that Mumma would open her eyes and smile at him again. Ritvik, who had waited every morning, every evening, every day that blurred into the next. The moment he saw her awake, he would run to her, arms wide, heart full—only to be met with a blank, confused gaze that didn't know who he was.

Sidharth swallowed, his throat dry, the question twisting in his mind and refusing to let go.

How would he manage that?

How would he hold a child's shattered hope in his hands without breaking it even further?

And what would Ritvik's face look like the first time he realized the woman who shared his blood couldn't remember holding him, kissing his forehead, whispering lullabies into his hair?

Sidharth said nothing, but the silence in the room now carried the weight of a man trying to face the one thing his power and control couldn't fix.