The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

CHAPTER 19: HIS SON

The narrow roads of Shimla blurred past the auto-rickshaw windows as Mrs. Kapoor held Aarya’s hand tightly. Sharp, unrelenting contractions ripped through Aarya’s body every few minutes, each one stealing her breath and blurring her vision. The cool mountain air that had once brought her peace now felt icy against her sweat-drenched skin. “Aunty… dard bahut ho raha hai,” (Aunty… it hurts so much,) Aarya gasped, clutching her rounded belly as another wave crashed over her. The baby was coming early — too early — and fear gripped her heart like a vice.

“Bas thoda sa aur, beti. Hospital aa gaya,” (Just a little more, daughter. The hospital has come,) Mrs. Kapoor reassured her, her voice steady despite the worry in her eyes. The kind older woman had become Aarya’s only anchor in this foreign hill town. She helped Aarya out of the auto and into the small but clean government hospital, shouting for help as they entered the emergency wing.

The hospital corridor smelled of strong antiseptic and faint traces of incense from a small temple corner near the entrance. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting cold, unforgiving shadows on the pale green walls. Nurses in white uniforms hurried past with trays of instruments and files, while distant cries of other laboring mothers echoed through the halls. Aarya was quickly wheeled into a modest labor room — two metal beds separated by a thin curtain, monitors beeping steadily, and a single window overlooking the dark pine trees outside. The room felt both clinical and sacred, a place where new lives fought to enter the world.

A young doctor, Dr. Priya, examined her quickly. “Baby ka position theek hai, lekin premature ho sakta hai. Aapko strong rehna hoga, Aarya,” (The baby’s position is fine, but it might be premature. You will have to stay strong, Aarya,) she said, her voice calm and professional. Aarya nodded through the pain, gripping the sides of the bed as another contraction tore through her.

Hours blurred into a haze of agony. The pain was unlike anything she had ever imagined — deep, visceral, wave after wave that made her scream despite her efforts to stay quiet. Sweat soaked her simple hospital gown. “Main… main nahi kar paungi,” (I… I can’t do this,) she cried during one particularly intense contraction, tears streaming down her face. Fear clawed at her — fear for her baby’s safety, fear of raising him alone, fear that Rishaan would never know his son.

But then she remembered the tiny flutters she had felt in her apartment. “Beta… maa ke liye strong bano,” (Child… be strong for mother,) she whispered fiercely between contractions, determination replacing despair. Mrs. Kapoor sat by her side, wiping her forehead with a cool cloth and holding her hand. “Tu akeli nahi hai, beti. Main hoon yahan,” (You are not alone, daughter. I am here,) the older woman repeated like a mantra.

In the rare moments of respite between pains, memories of Rishaan flooded Aarya’s mind, giving her hope and breaking her heart at the same time. She saw the golden sunrise at the ancient temple in the Aravalli Hills — marigold garlands swaying from carved pillars, incense smoke drifting like blessings, temple bells ringing as he applied sindoor to her parting. “Ab tum meri ho, poori tarah,” (Now you are mine, completely,) he had said, his hazel eyes full of love. She remembered the hilltop villa, his playful laughter as he lifted her onto the kitchen counter. “Badmash!” (Rogue!) he had teased before kissing her senseless. Those memories fueled her now. “Tumhara beta aa raha hai, Rishaan… agar tum yahan hote toh mera haath pakadte,” (Your son is coming, Rishaan… if you were here, you would hold my hand,) she whispered into the sterile air.

Time stretched endlessly. The doctor checked her progress regularly, the monitors beeping faster as labor intensified. Aarya pushed with everything she had, her body trembling from exhaustion and pain. “Push, Aarya! Bahut achhe se aa raha hai,” (Push, Aarya! It’s coming very well,) Dr. Priya encouraged. Mrs. Kapoor wiped her tears and whispered prayers. “Hey Bhagwan, is maa aur bachche ko bachao,” (Hey God, protect this mother and child.)

After what felt like an eternity of struggle — fear mingling with unbreakable determination — the final, most powerful contraction came. Aarya screamed, pouring every ounce of her love, pain, and resilience into one final push.

And then… a cry. A strong, healthy cry filled the labor room.

“It’s a boy!” Dr. Priya announced with a tired but joyful smile. The nurses quickly wrapped the tiny newborn and placed him on Aarya’s chest for skin-to-skin contact.

The world stopped.

Aarya’s tears flowed freely as she looked down at the tiny miracle in her arms. Overwhelming love — pure, fierce, and all-consuming — flooded every cell of her being. This little boy, with his tiny wrinkled face, delicate fingers, and surprisingly strong cry, was hers. He was theirs. “Mera beta…” (My son…) she whispered, her voice breaking into sobs of pure joy and relief. She gently touched his soft cheek, feeling the warmth of new life against her skin. The pain of hours of labor vanished in an instant, replaced by a love so profound it felt almost holy.

He looked so much like Rishaan. The same dark tuft of hair, the shape of his little nose, and when his eyes fluttered open briefly, Aarya saw a hint of that familiar hazel shade. “Tum bilkul apne papa jaise ho,” (You are exactly like your papa,) she murmured, her heart aching with both happiness and sorrow. In that moment, holding her son, she felt Rishaan’s presence so strongly it hurt. “Dekho beta, tumhare papa ki aankhein… unki taakat… sab tum mein hai.” (Look child, your father’s eyes… his strength… everything is in you.)

Mrs. Kapoor wiped her own tears, smiling warmly. “Bahut khoobsurat hai woh, beti. Tumne bahut himmat dikhai,” (He is very beautiful, daughter. You showed great courage,) she said, gently stroking Aarya’s hair.

Aarya held her son closer, inhaling his newborn scent — a mix of innocence and hope. All the hardships of the past months — the public humiliation, Rishaan’s cruel words, the financial struggles, the lonely nights — faded into the background. This tiny boy was worth every tear, every sacrifice. “Main tumhe hamesha pyaar dungi. Tum kabhi akela nahi feel karoge,” (I will always love you. You will never feel alone,) she promised softly, kissing his forehead.

Exhaustion pulled at her, but she couldn’t stop gazing at him. The doctor and nurses moved around quietly, giving her this precious moment. In the quiet of the labor room, with the distant sound of other babies crying and the soft hum of monitors, Aarya felt a completeness she hadn’t known since the temple sunrise.

She traced his tiny fingers, counting them one by one, and whispered the name that had lived in her heart for months:

“Aarav Malhotra.”

The name hung in the air like a sacred vow — a bridge between past love and future hope. Aarav — peaceful and strong, carrying his father’s legacy even if his father didn’t remember.

To be continued...