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Veer sleeps peacefully on our decorated bed as I brush off the rose petals from it and arrange the sheets. He looks so serene, his little chest rising and falling with each breath.

When Vishnu moves to transfer him to his crib, I shake my head.

“Veer’s sleeping here with me tonight,” I say, my tone brooking no argument. I carefully position pillows on the other edge of the bed to keep our son safe and then settle on my side, determined to hold on to my anger.

Without arguing, he heads to the bathroom, and the sound of the shower running fills the silence. I take my phone and scroll through more congratulatory messages on my phone, trying to distract myself.

When the door opens a few minutes later, I make the mistake of glancing up and my breath catches in my throat—he’s wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, slung low on his hips, droplets of water trailing down his chest. Heat floods my veins despite my resolve to stay angry. My hands freeze mid-motion, and I force myself to look away, but my traitorous body betrays me. I sneak another glance, watching him as he dries his hair with slow, deliberate movements. He’s fully aware of the effect he has on me, and that only makes it worse.

When he strides toward the bed, I immediately snap, “You’re not sleeping here tonight.”

He doesn’t respond; not even a flicker of emotion crosses his face. Instead, he climbs onto the bed, pushing me toward the middle as he settles behind me, tucking me close to his chest.

“Vishnu!” I hiss, trying to wriggle free, but his grip is firm. I might not be able to physically push him away, but I can certainly give him a piece of my mind. “This is not happening. You can’t just—”

“Hush,” he murmurs against my ear. “You don’t want to wake Veer, do you?”

I hate that he’s right. I glance at Veer, who stirs slightly but settles again, blissfully unaware of the tension between his parents. I turn to face Vishnu, ready to argue, but the intensity in his eyes makes my heart skip.

“I had no plans to even talk to you tonight, but here you are, forcing yourself into my bed like nothing happened.”

He doesn’t flinch at my words. There is not even a hint of guilt on his face. Instead, his thumb brushes against my cheek with an infuriating gentleness.

“Do you know what you did today?” I demand, though his thumb stroking my cheek is terribly distracting.

“Simran...” His voice is softer than usual, and his dark eyes hold mine. “I don’t explain my actions to anyone. Not even my father. Yet, I’m explaining them to you.”

Like that’s supposed to impress me.Huh! He isn’t doing me any favours.

“I had suspicions about Zane, and I couldn’t ignore them because you matter to me. Your life matters to me. I did what I had to do to verify those suspicions.”

“But you were wrong,” I counter, though my resolve is weakening under his touch. “You’ve ruined my business relationship with him.”

“Zane isn’t the only fashion consultant in this city,” he says, his thumb now tracing my lower lip. “You’ll find someone else.”

“He’s the best in his field,” I scoff. “That’s why I hired him. Do you even understand what this could mean for my business?”

Instead of answering, his gaze drops to my lips. His shifts closer, his body radiating heat, and his fingers slowly trace my lips, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

“I don’t want to hear any other man’s name tonight,” he interrupts, his voice dropping to that deep timbre that makes my skin tingle. “Not even for professional reasons. Tonight, I want only my name on your lips, Simran. Whether it’s a moan or a plea... you will utter only my name on our wedding night.”

My body again betrays me as his hand slips inside my nightshirt and cups my breasts intimately. A sharp gasp escapes me, but I quickly regain my composure. I grab his wrist and shove his hand away.

“You don’t get that privilege tonight.”

“It’s our wedding night,” he growls softly. “I get to make love to my wife.”

“Not when you’re responsible for souring your wife’s mood,” I retort, turning my back to him. But I can feel his gaze burning into my skin.

He draws me back against his chest, his leg sliding over mine to trap me in place.

“I told you earlier,” he whispers, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, “we Walias are very particular about following every ritual. At least let me kiss my bride tonight.”

“No,” I protest weakly, but he’s already pressing kisses to my hair, my nape, making me shiver. My resolve is crumbling, my body betraying my mind’s determination to stay angry.

His hand slips under my nightshirt again, and when I try to resist, he quiets me with a gentle ‘Just this.’

His fingers move with maddening skill, and I know I’m fighting a losing battle. I want to push him away, to hold onto my anger, but the warmth of his touch makes it impossible. I give up trying to resist, my breaths coming faster as his fingers work their magic, massaging and kneading my breasts until my defences crumble completely.