I forced my eyes open, blinking against the bright lights. I was in a hospital room. Clean white walls. The steady beep of monitors. The smell of antiseptic.
And Armaan.
He was sitting in a chair beside my bed, still in the same clothes he had been wearing that morning, now rumpled and stained. His hair was disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly. His eyes were red rimmed.
But he was smiling. Tears were streaming down his face, but he was smiling.
Our hands were clasped together, his grip tight and warm.
I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. So I just looked at him, asking the question with my eyes.
The baby. What about our baby?
His smile grew wider, and more tears fell.
"She is safe," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Our daughter is safe. She is in the NICU because she is premature, but the doctors say she is strong. She is going to be okay."
Daughter. We had a daughter.
Relief and joy and overwhelming love crashed over me all at once. I tried to sit up, needing to see her, to hold her.
"Wait, wait," Armaan said, gently pushing me back down. "You need to rest. You just came out of surgery. The doctor said—"
But I did not care what the doctor said. I reached for him, pulling him toward me with more strength than I thought I had.
He came willingly, leaning over the bed, wrapping his arms carefully around me.
I kissed him. Poured everything I felt into that kiss. Love and gratitude and forgiveness and promise.
When we finally pulled apart, both of us were crying.
"This is the best day of my life," I whispered against his lips.
The door opened, and Dadi and Papa hurried in, their faces lighting up when they saw I was awake.
"Viya, beta! Thank god. Thank god you are alright."
They came to the bedside, Dadi taking my hand, Papa standing behind Armaan with his hand on his son's shoulder.
"The baby?" I asked.
"She is beautiful," Dadi said, tears streaming down her face. "So tiny but so perfect. She is in intensive care because she is premature, but the doctors are very optimistic."
A daughter. I had a daughter. Armaan and I had created a life together, and she was here, and she was safe.
There was another knock at the door, and Aryan entered, followed by two other people in business suits. It took me a moment to recognize them. Mr. Sharma, my lawyer. And Armaan's lawyer.
Oh. The court date. We were supposed to be at the courthouse right now.
Mr. Sharma approached the bed carefully.
"Mrs. Khanna, I am so glad to see you are alright. We heard about what happened. The court has been informed, and Judge Desai has postponed the hearing. She said to take all the time you need to recover, and we can reschedule whenever you are ready."
I looked at Armaan, at his hopeful, anxious expression. At Dadi and Papa watching me with concern and love. At this family that had become mine despite everything.
Then I looked back at Mr. Sharma.
"I do not need another date," I said clearly. "I am taking back the divorce petition. I want to stay with my husband."
