Mallaya had imagined this moment a thousand different ways.

Sometimes she pictured a candlelit dinner, the kind she used to make before life became a schedule of disappointments and doctor appointments. Sometimes she pictured a morning reveal, a soft laugh, Baraka’s arms wrapping around her as if her body wasn’t a battlefield they’d both been losing on for five years.

But the version she carried in her head most often was simple: lunchtime.

She would walk into his office with a small gift bag, her hands trembling, her heart beating too fast for her ribs. She’d pull him into the corner where the blinds filtered the sun into quiet stripes. She’d whisper, We’re going to be parents, and watch his face change, shock breaking into joy, his eyes filling, his voice cracking as he said, Finally.

That was the dream.

That was why, even after five years of negative tests and sympathetic smiles from nurses, even after the late-night prayers she whispered into her pillow so Baraka wouldn’t hear her sob, she still kept hope like a fragile glass cup. She carried it carefully. She didn’t slam doors. She didn’t speak too sharply. She didn’t ask too often whether he still wanted this life with her.

Because if you asked too much, you might hear the truth.

That morning, Mallaya woke with nausea twisting low in her stomach. It wasn’t the usual kind that came from stress or skipping breakfast. It was different, deeper, paired with a strange exhaustion that made her limbs feel full of sand.

She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe. Baraka wasn’t beside her. He had already left, as he often did these days, claiming early meetings, big decisions, an empire he was building.

Mallaya pressed a hand to her abdomen as if she could feel something microscopic and miraculous already taking root.

Five years, she thought.

Five years of waiting.

She moved through the morning quietly, almost afraid to disturb the air. She bought a pregnancy test from a pharmacy across town so no one who knew her would see. She locked herself in the bathroom, heart pounding, palms damp, and whispered a prayer that sounded more like a plea.

Just one last time, God. Please.

When the result appeared, Mallaya stared at it so long her eyes watered.

Positive.

For a second she didn’t understand what she was seeing, as if her own life had finally spoken in a language she didn’t know how to read. Then her knees went weak and she laughed at the same time she cried, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other shaking as she held that small plastic stick like it was proof she had not been forgotten.

“God has remembered us,” she whispered.

Her first instinct was to tell Baraka immediately.

Not later. Not after she calmed down. Not after she bought a cute baby onesie or planned a perfect reveal.

Now.

Because she wanted to feel his joy wrap around hers. She wanted this miracle to stitch the distance between them. She wanted their marriage to have something new to hold onto, something alive.

So she didn’t even change properly. She rinsed her face, smoothed her hair into a quick, neat style, slipped into a dress that made her look composed, and drove toward the city’s glass-and-steel business district with a heart so full it almost hurt.

Baraka worked in a corner office on the seventeenth floor of a company Mallaya had helped build from scratch.

That part was never said out loud, not in public, not in meetings. People called Baraka “visionary,” “driven,” “self-made.” They praised his charisma, his hunger, his ability to walk into rooms and make people believe he belonged there.

Mallaya had belonged there first.

She had inherited a modest but thriving portfolio from her late father. She had invested it wisely. She had connections in banking and real estate, friends who picked up her calls because they trusted her name. When Baraka was a charming man with big dreams and nothing to back them, Mallaya’s love had become his ladder.

And she never resented it. Not once.

Because she believed marriage meant building together.

The security guard downstairs recognized her and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mrs. K.”

Mallaya returned the smile, her fingers curled around the pregnancy test in her handbag like a secret made of light. She rode the elevator up, watching the numbers climb, each floor a heartbeat closer to the moment she’d waited five years to live.

When she stepped out, the office floor was busy, phones ringing, printers humming, heels clicking on polished tile. A few employees nodded at her politely. Mallaya moved down the hallway toward Baraka’s door, already imagining his face.

Then she heard his voice.

Loud. Bitter. Laughing.

Mallaya slowed.

The door to his office was slightly ajar, a thin slice of sound spilling out like smoke.

“Five years of marriage and my wife has given me nothing,” Baraka shouted, leaning back in his chair with the casual cruelty of a man who thought his words had no consequences. “Five years. No child, no future.”

There was another voice in the room, soft and amused.

Asha.

His assistant.

Mallaya knew Asha by name, by sight, by the way she always smiled too brightly at company dinners and called Mallaya “madam” with a sweetness that felt rehearsed. She was young, stylish, and always close to Baraka, always moving at his side like a shadow that enjoyed being seen.

Mallaya’s feet stopped moving.

She stood in the hallway as if the tile beneath her had turned to ice.

“I want a woman who can give me children,” Baraka continued, scoffing. “A real family. That’s why I’m planning to divorce her and marry you.”

Inside the office, Asha’s laugh was quiet and delighted. Mallaya pictured her perched on the edge of the desk, legs swinging, leaning in like a secret.

“Don’t you love her anymore?” Asha asked, voice teasing, as if she was playing a game she’d already won.

Baraka’s response came fast, cold, careless.

“Love?” he said, and Mallaya could hear him smile as he said it. “That ended a long time ago. I stayed because her money kept me where I wanted to be.”

Mallaya’s breath caught so sharply it hurt.

Asha’s voice slipped in again, smoother now, sharper underneath. “But without her money, you’d have nothing.”

Baraka didn’t deny it. He sounded almost proud.

“Exactly,” he said. “She built me from nothing.” Then he laughed low, cruel in a way that made Mallaya’s skin crawl. “But I can’t stay tied to someone I don’t love. I deserve a better life.”

The pregnancy test in Mallaya’s hand suddenly felt heavy.

Minutes ago, it had been a miracle.

Now it was a match hovering over gasoline.

Her mind flashed backward through five years of trying: the doctor visits, the hormone shots, the calendar marked with hope and then crossed through with disappointment. The nights she cried quietly in the bathroom so Baraka wouldn’t hear. The times she apologized for a body that was not broken, only slow to bloom.

And all the while, he had been turning her pain into a punchline.

Mallaya’s fingers went numb.

She pressed record on her phone.

She captured everything: the laughter, the cruelty, the plans.

As the recording continued, her mind raced through details that now rearranged themselves into confession. Late dinners Baraka claimed were meetings. Calls he said were business. The nights he came home smelling like perfume that wasn’t hers, shrugging off her questions with irritation.

All of it was true.

All of it had been lies.

Mallaya backed away from the door along the wall, moving as quietly as she could, every step a struggle. She didn’t want them to hear her. She didn’t want them to see her face. Not yet.

By the time she reached the parking lot, her hands shook so badly she had to steady herself against her car.

I can’t cry here, she told herself.

I can’t show weakness. Not now.

She sat behind the wheel and stared straight ahead, chest burning, stomach hollow.

For five years, she had begged life for a child.

Now life had handed her the truth instead.

Mallaya drove home in silence, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles whitened. The city blurred around her, but her mind stayed painfully clear.

She walked into her home, a place that smelled calm and normal, and felt like a stranger inside it. The walls held wedding photos. The couch held memories. The bedroom held a history she suddenly didn’t trust.

She went to her study and closed the door.

Then she dialed her lawyer.

Her voice came out cold, steady, unfamiliar even to her.

“Yes,” she said when the lawyer answered. “I need to start divorce proceedings immediately. And I want all property papers prepared.”

The lawyer hesitated. “Mallaya… are you sure? This is sudden.”

“It isn’t sudden,” Mallaya replied, looking down at the pregnancy test on her desk, now resting beside her phone like two different kinds of proof. “It’s just finally clear.”

She hung up.

The pain still burned like fire inside her chest, but beneath it, something else began to rise.

Clarity.

A clean, hard line where love used to be.

Hours later, the front door opened quietly.

Baraka stepped in with his usual confident air, the kind he wore like an expensive watch. He loosened his tie, tossed his keys in a bowl, and smiled toward the kitchen as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, baby,” he said warmly, stepping closer.

Mallaya stood at the stove.

Her hair was pulled neatly back, her dress elegant, her posture calm. She stirred a pot with slow, controlled movements and set the table with plates that matched, glasses that caught the light, a dinner that looked like an apology.

Baraka froze.

Mallaya rarely cooked anymore. She had staff for that. But more than that, she rarely did anything “extra” these days. Their marriage had become routine, transactional, tired.

The sight made him uneasy.

He stepped closer anyway, trying to act smooth. He kissed her forehead gently.

“I missed you today,” he murmured, voice almost sweet.

Mallaya noticed immediately the faint smell of perfume that wasn’t hers.

Baraka tried to meet her eyes but looked away too quickly.

Mallaya stayed silent, letting the quiet stretch, letting him feel the discomfort of her calm.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said lightly, placing a lid on the pot. “Sit down.”

Baraka cleared his throat and sat. Sweat already glistened faintly at his temples, though the house was cool. He tried to smile like a man who had control.

Mallaya could read him now.

The tiny tremble in his hands.

The rapid blinking.

Sweet words, guilty eyes.

Before they ate, Mallaya bowed her head.

Baraka blinked, surprised. She hadn’t prayed aloud in years.

Mallaya’s voice was low, calm, but every word carried weight.

“Lord, thank you for this home,” she said. “Thank you for my strength, for clear thinking, for showing me the truth. Protect me, guide me from evil, and bless this food.”

Baraka’s spoon clinked loudly on the plate.

His hands shook.

He forced a laugh that sounded broken. “You… you cooked?”

Mallaya only nodded, pouring herself water, watching him like she was watching a stranger audition for a role she no longer needed.

They ate mostly in silence.

Baraka tried a few compliments. “This is great.” “You should cook more.” “We should do dinners like this again.”

Mallaya let his words fall into the empty space between them.

After dinner, Baraka wiped his mouth, then reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder.

His smile returned, softer, too sweet.

“There are some papers I need you to sign,” he said. “Nothing serious. Just routine paperwork.”

Mallaya took the folder slowly.

She scanned every page, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Her heartbeat didn’t speed up. Her hands didn’t shake. Her face didn’t change.

But inside her, something hissed, sharp and furious.

These weren’t routine forms.

These were documents transferring her properties to him. Her house. Her investments. The things she had built, inherited, protected.

Baraka watched her with false ease, pretending this was normal, pretending he wasn’t stealing from her with a smile.

Mallaya closed the folder carefully.

“Routine,” she murmured, looking up.

Baraka nodded too quickly. “Yes. Just routine.”

Mallaya held his gaze for a long moment.

Then she smiled faintly, not warm, not cold, just… precise.

“Before I sign,” she said softly, “I have a surprise for you.”

Baraka blinked. “A surprise?”

“Yes,” Mallaya replied. “Close your eyes.”

He hesitated, swallowing hard, then obeyed. His lids shut like a man stepping into darkness willingly because he expected a reward on the other side.

Mallaya’s fingers were steady as she placed the positive pregnancy test in his hand.

“Open them,” she said gently.

Baraka opened his eyes and froze.

He stared at the test, then at her.

“Pregnant?” His voice cracked. “Are you sure?”

Mallaya waited for joy to arrive on his face.

Waited for the moment she’d dreamed about.

But his expression shifted into something else: calculation, alarm, discomfort.

“This… this is really happening,” he stammered. “Are we ready for this? Are you sure this is the right time for a baby?”

Mallaya’s chest tightened.

Five years.

Five years of hoping, praying, waiting.

And this was his reaction?

Her eyes stayed on his, stunned hurt flickering across her face like lightning behind glass.

“Five years,” she said quietly. “Five years I dreamed of having a child with you. And this… this is how you react.”

Baraka realized too late how cruel he sounded. His hands shook. He forced a smile that collapsed immediately.

Mallaya leaned closer, her voice dropping lower.

“I have one more surprise for you.”

Baraka swallowed hard. “Another?”

“Close your eyes again,” she said softly.

He obeyed, trembling now, because some instinct in him finally recognized danger. Not danger like yelling or violence.

Danger like consequence.

Mallaya pulled out her phone.

She pressed play.

Baraka’s own voice filled the room, loud and disgusting in the quiet house:

Five years of marriage and my wife has given me nothing… I stayed because her money kept me where I wanted to be… I’m planning to divorce her and marry you…

Asha’s laughter followed, bright and pleased, like the sound of someone stepping on something sacred.

Baraka’s eyes flew open.

His face drained of color.

His knees buckled.

He dropped to the floor like his body finally remembered what weakness felt like.

“Mallaya, please,” he choked. “My love, I didn’t mean… I can explain…”

Mallaya’s voice shook for the first time, not with fear, but with a fierce grief that had sharpened into steel.

“I trusted you,” she said. “I built you. I loved you. I defended you. And you… you did this.”

Baraka crawled closer on his knees, tears spilling down his face. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me. I never meant to hurt you.”

Mallaya stood above him, calm again, the storm contained behind her eyes.

“Pack your things,” she said softly, each word heavy. “Leave my house now.”

Baraka stared up at her. “Mallaya…”

“I’m filing for divorce,” she continued, her voice like a final door closing. “We are done.”

He tried to speak, but his throat couldn’t shape the sound. The lies had collapsed. The plan had burned. The ladder he’d climbed on her back had snapped.

Mallaya watched him for a moment longer, not because she doubted her choice, but because she wanted to fully see the man he truly was.

A man who could laugh at her pain.

A man who could try to steal her home.

A man who heard “pregnant” and thought “problem.”

Finally, Baraka stood slowly, face wet, breathing shallow. He packed a small bag with shaking hands and left the house like someone walking out of a life he didn’t deserve.

Mallaya remained in the kitchen, one hand resting against her abdomen, as if promising the life inside her that it would not be born into betrayal.

---

Baraka drove straight to Asha’s apartment.

His heart raced not with grief, but with a twisted hope. If Mallaya was done, then his “new beginning” could start. He could still win something.

Asha opened the door wearing a silk robe and a smile that widened when she saw the bag in his hand.

“Baraka,” she purred. “So you finally left her?”

He nodded eagerly, clinging to the fantasy. “Yes. It’s over. I chose you. We’ll marry soon.”

Asha laughed softly and pulled him into her arms. “I knew you would.”

She led him inside, talking about plans, about the future, about how Mallaya had been holding him back.

For the first time that night, Baraka felt relief.

He believed he had won.

But life has a way of charging interest on cruelty.

Weeks passed.

Without Mallaya’s influence, the world turned unforgiving.

The business Baraka ran began to question decisions he’d made, deals he’d pushed through, money that didn’t add up. Audits were triggered. Whispers grew into investigations. People who once smiled at him started looking through him.

Then the real blow landed.

He lost his job.

Not quietly. Not with a dignified exit.

He was escorted out after evidence surfaced that he’d been siphoning money, stealing in ways he thought he could hide behind Mallaya’s protection and reputation.

His colleagues turned against him. Doors closed. Calls went unanswered.

The empire he thought he owned crumbled.

He returned to Asha’s apartment one evening, trying to hold his shoulders high, trying to pretend he still had power.

Asha opened the door and took one look at his face.

“You lost the job,” she said flatly.

Baraka tried to laugh it off. “It’s temporary. They don’t understand. I’ll fix it.”

Asha stepped back, folding her arms. “You lied to me,” she said, voice sharp. “You told me you left her cleanly. But now I know she kicked you out. And now you have nothing.”

Baraka’s smile faltered. “Asha…”

She shook her head, disgust curling her mouth. “No job, no money, no power.” Her eyes scanned him like he was a bad purchase. “You’re useless.”

Baraka flinched.

Asha opened the door wider, pointing toward the hallway. “I gave you a chance, but I can’t waste my life with a man who can’t even be honest. Leave.”

Baraka’s throat tightened. “You said we’d figure it out.”

Asha laughed, cold and short. “I said that when you were still valuable.”

The door closed.

And just like that, the woman he thought was love turned out to be the same thing he had been: a transaction.

Baraka wandered the city like a ghost.

He sat in empty cafes staring at walls that offered no comfort. He watched couples laugh and felt nothing but regret. Every corner reminded him of Mallaya, not because she was physically there, but because her presence had been the foundation he had spat on.

He tried to find her.

He called.

He texted.

He showed up at places she used to go.

But Mallaya had moved differently now. Quietly. Strategically. Like a woman who had learned that safety sometimes meant distance.

Months later, she finally agreed to meet him.

Not in their home.

Not in a place full of memories.

In a public park where sunlight fell through trees and children’s laughter made the air feel clean.

Mallaya arrived in a simple dress, her belly rounded with pregnancy, her face calm. She looked stronger than he remembered, like betrayal had forced her to discover a version of herself she’d been hiding.

Baraka stood when he saw her, hands twisting. “Mallaya,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Mallaya studied him, not with hatred, but with clear-eyed understanding.

“I forgive you,” she said softly.

Baraka’s shoulders sagged with relief, tears springing.

Then she continued.

“But I want nothing to do with you.”

His breath caught.

“I will raise my child alone,” she said. “You made your choice. Now live with it.”

Baraka’s eyes dropped to her belly, to the life he had once demanded and then feared when it arrived.

“Can I… can I at least—”

“No,” Mallaya said gently, and the gentleness made it sting more than anger. “Not because I want to punish you. Because I want to protect what’s mine.”

She turned to leave.

Baraka watched her walk away carrying herself with dignity, holding her future in both hands, and for the first time he felt the full weight of what he had lost.

Not money.

Not status.

A home built on loyalty.

A woman who loved him when he had nothing.

A miracle he didn’t know how to deserve.

---

Mallaya prospered.

Her companies grew. Her reputation strengthened, not through loud revenge, but through steady excellence. She hired better people. She protected her assets. She built a life where love wasn’t begging and trust wasn’t blind.

When her baby arrived, it was on a rainy morning that made the world smell new. Mallaya held her child against her chest and felt something settle inside her that she hadn’t felt in years.

Peace.

Not the fragile kind.

The kind you earn.

She didn’t tell her child stories about villains and cheaters. She told stories about courage. About boundaries. About how love should feel safe, not draining.

And somewhere across the city, Baraka lived with regret like a second skin.

No job. No respect. No love.

Every day a reminder that betrayal doesn’t always arrive with thunder.

Sometimes it arrives quietly, through a woman who stops crying… and starts choosing herself.

Because the truth is simple:

A person who builds you can also unbuild you.

And when you betray loyalty, you don’t just lose a marriage.

You lose the version of your life that could have been beautiful.

THE END