She stood near the bed, wrapped in a deep red saree that hugged her frame yet somehow made her seem fragile—arms crossed tightly, a shield she clung to. Her eyes were fixed on him.

He sat on the sofa like a king, one leg crossed over the other, spreading his presence with silent command. In his hand, he held the apple she had meant to eat. But instead of handing it back, he brought it to his lips, biting into it slowly. Watching her hunger fade, he smirked and said, “We shouldn’t waste food.”

“What do you want to ask, wifey?” he said without lifting his eyes, voice calm but teasing, like a cat playing with its prey.

She blinked, biting back a frown. “Why did you do that?”

He chewed deliberately for a moment and then asked, “What exactly?”

“Defend me,” she snapped suddenly, her voice low but fierce.Her arms dropped to her sides. “I was doing fine. I don’t need you standing up for me.”

His eyes lifted, sharp and piercing, fixing her with an intensity that made her spine stiffen. She swallowed her words, but the tension in the room thickened like a storm ready to break.

Without a word, he set the apple  back on the table and casually reached for a tissue box. He rose smoothly, every step deliberate as he approached her. His fingers moved to gently wipe the crumbs from his hand, but the gesture felt like a prelude to something far more dangerous.

“You asked why I defend you,” he murmured, stepping closer.

His gaze bore into her, heavy and unmoving. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep her composure.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly, barely a whisper. “Because—”

Before she could finish, he closed the distance, dropping the tissue carelessly to the floor. His presence was overwhelming now—too close, too raw.

She tried to retreat, stepping back instinctively, but the bed was behind her. The cold, polished wood scraped against her feet before she stumbled onto the mattress.

He hovered over her, one hand planted firmly on the bed beside her head, the other gripping her waist like a claim—unyielding and possessive.

She raised her hand, pressing it against his chest, desperate to push him away, to create space. But his hold tightened, pulling her closer instead. Her resistance faltered beneath the weight of his grip.

Her breath hitched, a silent shudder racing down her spine. Goosebumps erupted across her skin where his body pressed against hers.

Their eyes locked in a fierce, silent battle—hers wide with fear and confusion, his dark and unreadable.

He lowered his face slowly, a breath away from hers. Panic surged through her veins; she turned her face sharply, closing her eyes tightly, bracing for what she feared.

But instead, he bent closer to her ear, his warm breath ghosting over her skin like fire.

“Because you are my wife, Avni,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, “and you are beautiful in your own way. No one gets to call my goddess ugly.”

He moved, still holding her. She looked up at him.

“Not even you allowed to say that.”