The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

CHAPTER 17: ALONE

The modest apartment in Shimla had become both a sanctuary and a prison of solitude. Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, but Aarya barely noticed it anymore. She lay curled on the thin mattress, her body heavy with exhaustion that went bone-deep. The pregnancy was now well into the sixth month, and every day brought new battles. A sharp wave of nausea hit her suddenly. She bolted upright, rushing to the small sink in the kitchenette, retching violently even though there was almost nothing left in her stomach.

“Ugh… bas kar beta,” (Ugh… stop it, child,) she gasped between heaves, one hand gripping the cold edge of the sink, the other cradling her rounded belly. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool mountain air. Morning sickness had not eased as the books promised; instead, it had intensified, leaving her weak and drained before the day even began. She rinsed her mouth and splashed water on her face, staring at her pale reflection in the small mirror. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her cheeks had lost their earlier glow. “Tum theek ho na andar? Maa ko itna mat satao,” (You’re okay inside, right? Don’t trouble your mother so much,) she whispered softly, a tired smile touching her lips despite the pain.

The loneliness pressed on her like the heavy mist that often blanketed the hills outside. No one was there to hold her hair back, no strong arms to rub her back, no deep voice murmuring, “Sab theek ho jayega, jaan.” (Everything will be fine, my love.) Rishaan’s absence was a constant ache. In quiet moments, she imagined him in the hilltop villa kitchen, playfully lifting her onto the counter. “Badmash!” (Rogue!) he would tease. Those memories both sustained and tormented her.

After forcing down a few bites of dry toast and ginger tea, Aarya prepared for her doctor’s appointment. She wore a simple loose salwar kameez that concealed her growing belly from curious neighbors. The local clinic was a twenty-minute walk downhill, a small but clean facility serving the hill station’s residents. Every step felt laborious, her back aching and legs swollen from the pregnancy. Yet she walked with quiet determination, one hand supporting her lower back, the other occasionally brushing her stomach.

“Beta, aaj doctor aunty se poochhenge ki tum kitne active ho,” (Child, today we’ll ask doctor aunty how active you are,) she murmured on the way, speaking to her baby as she often did. These one-sided conversations had become her lifeline against crushing loneliness. “Tumhare papa yahan hote toh mujhe gaadi mein baithakar le jaate. Unki strong baahon mein mujhe support milta.” (If your father were here, he would drive me and support me with his strong arms.)

The waiting room at the clinic was filled with expectant mothers, many accompanied by doting husbands or excited family members. Aarya sat quietly in a corner, her eyes drawn unwillingly to a young couple nearby. The husband gently massaged his wife’s feet while she leaned against him, both laughing softly over an ultrasound image. Another woman rested her head on her husband’s shoulder as he read aloud from a pregnancy book. The sight pierced Aarya’s heart like a thousand needles. *Main akeli kyun hoon?* (Why am I alone?) she thought, tears stinging her eyes. She turned away, focusing instead on a faded poster of a healthy mother and child on the wall.

“Aarya Sharma?” the nurse called. She rose slowly and entered the consultation room alone.

Dr. Meera Sharma, a compassionate woman in her fifties, greeted her warmly. “Aao beta. Aaj kaisa feel kar rahi ho?” (Come, daughter. How are you feeling today?)

“Thoda thakaan zyada hai, Doctor aunty. Subah uthne mein problem hoti hai, vomiting bhi,” (I feel more tired, Doctor aunty. It’s hard to get up in the morning, and there’s vomiting too,) Aarya replied honestly, sitting on the examination table. She described her symptoms in detail — the persistent exhaustion that made even simple tutoring sessions difficult, the swelling in her ankles after long walks, and the occasional sharp pains that worried her.

The doctor performed a routine check-up, listening to the baby’s heartbeat with a Doppler device. The strong, rhythmic *thump-thump* filled the small room, bringing a genuine smile to Aarya’s face despite everything. “Sun rahe ho, beta? Tumhari dhadkan bahut strong hai,” (Can you hear, child? Your heartbeat is very strong,) she whispered, her hand resting on her belly.

Dr. Meera nodded approvingly. “Baby ka growth normal hai. Lekin aapko zyada rest ki zarurat hai, Aarya. Stress aur akelapan pregnancy ko mushkil bana sakta hai. Koi family member nahi hai aapke saath?” (The baby’s growth is normal. But you need more rest, Aarya. Stress and loneliness can make pregnancy difficult. Is there no family member with you?)

Aarya shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Nahi, Doctor. Main akeli hi sambhal lungi.” (No, Doctor. I will manage alone.) Inside, resilience burned quietly. She had survived public humiliation, Rishaan’s cruel words, and the threats from his powerful family. She would survive this too — for her child. “Main roz subah walk karti hoon, light khana khati hoon. Vitamins le rahi hoon,” (I walk every morning, eat light meals, and take vitamins,) she added, showing her quiet strength.

Later that week, another appointment brought the same contrast. In the waiting room, a joyful couple argued playfully over baby names while the wife’s hand rested on her large belly. Aarya watched them with a bittersweet ache. *Rishaan aur main bhi aise hi sochte the naam… ladki tumhari tarah sundar aur strong.* (Rishaan and I used to think of names like this too… a girl beautiful and strong like you.) She turned to her own belly and spoke softly under her breath. “Tumhe naam socha hai maine. Agar ladki hui toh ‘Aarohi’ — nayi shuruaat. Ladka hua toh ‘Vihaan’ — nayi subah. Tum mere naye aarambh ho.” (I have thought of a name for you. If it’s a girl, ‘Aarohi’ — new beginning. If a boy, ‘Vihaan’ — new dawn. You are my new beginning.)

Exhaustion followed her everywhere. Evenings were the hardest. After tutoring sessions, she would return home drained, feet swollen, back throbbing. Cooking simple meals took all her remaining energy. She often ate while sitting on the balcony, watching the mist roll over the pines. “Tumhare papa yahan hote toh hum dono milkar khana banate. Woh mujhe counter pe baitha deta aur hasata rehta,” (If your father were here, we would cook together. He would seat me on the counter and keep making me laugh,) she told the baby, her voice thick with emotion.

Yet she remained resilient. She continued her small writing gigs, penning heartfelt poems late into the night when sleep evaded her. She took short walks every morning, breathing in the healing mountain air, forcing her body to stay strong. “Hum dono mil kar ladenge, beta. Main tumhe duniya ke against protect karungi,” (We will fight together, child. I will protect you against the world,) she vowed during one such walk, her steps slow but determined.

During her next check-up, Dr. Meera’s usual warm smile faded slightly as she reviewed the latest reports and performed an ultrasound. Aarya lay on the table, heart pounding with both excitement and anxiety as the doctor moved the probe gently over her belly. The image appeared on the screen — her baby, growing steadily, tiny limbs moving.

“Doctor… sab theek toh hai na?” (Doctor… everything is okay, right?) Aarya asked, searching the doctor’s face.

Dr. Meera paused, studying the monitor more carefully. Her brow furrowed with concern. “Aarya beta, baby ka growth abhi bhi normal range mein hai, lekin… mujhe ek complication nazar aa raha hai.”

(The doctor’s words sent a chill through Aarya as she waited for the rest.)

To be continued...