The house smelled like vanilla and lemon polish, the kind of scent that clung to everything after a thorough cleaning. Nandini wiped her hands on her apron, surveying the spotless living room with satisfaction. The cushions were perfectly plumped, the coffee table gleamed, and not a single speck of dust dared linger on the shelves. She exhaled, rubbing the small swell of her belly absentmindedly. Five months along, and she still moved with the same precision she always had—every dish placed just so, every fold in the curtains symmetrical.

Manik leaned against the doorway, watching her. He had that look again, the one that made her pulse quicken before she even registered why. "You missed a spot," he said, voice low.