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The look she gives me hits me like a punch to the gut. Those eyes, usually so full of fire, now hold a mixture of vulnerability and hurt that makes me freeze. It’s not about modesty; it’s about the other night, when I pulled away, when I stopped us from crossing that line. She’s silently asking me if I’m sure about this, that I won’t regret helping her undress the way I regretted our almost-intimacy before.

I swallow hard as I struggle between what I want to do and what I know I should do. I realise I’m on the verge of crossing a line again—one that I’m not ready to cross. Not yet.

Finally, I turn to Claire.

“Help her,” I manage to say. “I’ll be outside.”

Simran flinches slightly at my tone, her head bowing in defeat as I step back. A single tear escapes her eye, and it cuts through me like a knife. She turns away from me, her shoulders stiff, and I realise I’ve hurt her more than what she endured at the boutique today. This is the second time I’ve pulled away, and this time, I did it when she needed me the most.

As Claire helps her to the bathroom, I slam the door behind me, the sound reverberating through the apartment like my own internal conflict. My chest constricts painfully as I lean against the wall, struggling to breathe, to think, to make sense of what I’ve done. The look of rejection in her eyes burns into my memory—a wound far deeper than any physical pain.

I’m failing her. Not just now, but in every moment where I’ve allowed pain to build a wall between us. This is no longer about protecting her; it’s about choosing whether to fix what’s broken or let it shatter completely.

Yes, Simran made a grave mistake by hiding Veer from me. But that’s in the past now—a chapter we cannot rewrite, no matter how much we might want to. And now, standing here, I only have two choices.

The first is a path of continued bitterness—staying together for Veer’s sake, but allowing resentment to poison our every word, every touch, every shared moment. A life where we’re always haunted by past wounds, where every glance is a reminder of the betrayal I can’t forget.

The second path is even harder. It requires something I’ve never been good at—true forgiveness. Not just saying the words, but actually meaning them. Accepting her completely. Trusting her again. Giving her the love and support she deserves, without constantly dragging her through the mud for her past mistakes.

Forgiveness has never come easily to me. I’m not a man known for second chances. My reputation is built on hard lines and uncompromising decisions. But if I can forgive my own father—a man who failed me in ways that cut deeper than any knife—can I not extend the same grace to the woman who has always held a piece of my heart?

I close my eyes, feeling the conflict inside me slowly settle into a quiet resolution. Forgiveness isn’t about forgetting. It’s about choosing to love despite the pain. It’s about understanding that we are flawed, that we all make mistakes, and that true strength lies not in holding onto anger, but in letting it go.

Simran is not just the mother of my child. She’s the woman who has stood by me, even when I’ve pushed her away. Her mistake wasn’t born out of malice but out of fear—for her independence, for her dreams. And now, there’s only one question haunting me. Should I give her another chance?

I leave the apartment, heading straight to the one across the hall where my team is stationed. The room is a flurry of activity—guards on calls, others monitoring footage on the screens. My rage simmers dangerously close to the surface as I step inside.

“What the hell is happening?” I thunder, my voice cutting through the background noise. “How the hell did a package like that even make it into Simran’s office? How long are we going to take to find this creep who’s messing with my woman’s mind?”

The men exchange glances, understanding the depth of my fury. I’m not just angry—I’m beyond furious. This isn’t just about a package. This is about someone deliberately targeting Simran and trying to break her spirit.

Abhay steps forward, his expression serious.

“The package had a fake postal stamp,” he informs me. “The sender’s address is non-existent. And the reports from the forensics team have just arrived. Those stains on the scarf? It’s not blood. It’s paint. The whole thing was a psychological scare tactic.”

I grit my teeth, my hands clenching into fists.

“Or maybe it’s a warning,” I spit out. “A message that next time, the blood could be real. The blood of someone who matters to Simran.”

Abhay nods grimly. “We’re not taking this lightly, Vishnu.”

I pace the room, my hands fisting in frustration.

“He sent this to her boutique. Despite knowing we are protecting her, he hasn’t backed off. He’s playing games, Abhay—with her mind, with her safety. This isn’t just some competitor trying to scare her off. This is personal.”

“Exactly,” he agrees. “He’s trying to get inside our heads. And if it’s not a business competitor, then who could it be?”

Abhay raises an interesting point.

“What do we know about Simran’s past? Her family history?” he asks.

The question hits me like a punch. I go blank. Completely blank. I’m suddenly reminded of our heated argument where Simran accused me of not knowing anything about her beyond the basics. A wave of guilt hits me—she was right.

Just then, another team member steps forward, holding up a tablet.

“Sir, we’ve got CCTV footage from this morning,” he says, pulling up the video.

The footage shows a man in a black hat delivering the same package to the building’s reception area. His face is strategically obscured, but there’s something deliberate about his movements. As he hands over the package, he touches his hat—a small yet subtle gesture that feels more like a signal than a casual movement.