Gereksiz İntikam

37

Shoaib's pov

My blood ran cold when I saw her lying on the floor on her stomach.

How did she fall? We were just talking.

I immediately ran toward her still form and lifted her head onto my thighs.

No, no, no. She can’t fall like this—she’s carrying our baby. What if something happened to our child? I balled my fists in frustration.

“Taniya,” I whispered, tapping her cheeks to wake her up, but my eyes widened in horror as I saw blood seeping from her hand.

My eyes quickly found the sharp edge of the glass table, smeared with her blood.

Holding her in my arms, I rushed out toward the hospital.

It’s always hard to reach quickly through California’s traffic, but only God knows how many red signals I broke.

I didn’t give a damn about anything else at that moment.

My mind stayed focused on my lady, unconscious with a bleeding hand, lying in the back seat of my car.

God, I wish I were in India right now—just one call from Mumma would bring the best doctors in Lucknow to our home.

When I reached the hospital, I took her out in my arms and ran like a madman toward the entrance.

Seeing her condition, a nurse in her mid-forties approached with a male attendant and a stretcher.

I placed her unconscious body on it with a heavy heart. The nurse checked her pulse and asked me something, but I couldn’t hear anything.

The only words coming from my mouth like a chant were:

“Save my wife. She’s with child. Please save them.”

Even I don’t know how many times I repeated those words.

Tears pricked my eyes as her hand slipped from mine—like my own life was slipping away.

I don’t know how many hours I sat on that bench, palms tangled in my hair.

I wanted to call Dishaan Bhai. I wanted to call Mumma. But neither my body nor my mind was working.

My heart felt too heavy. I was terrified of hearing something I couldn’t bear.

I wanted my wife to be fine. And the baby? If this one doesn’t make it, maybe we’ll have another. But I want Taniya back.

I can’t suffer like Danish. I can’t watch her die.

God, I’ll lose my mind.

Please save my wife. I know I said harsh things, but I had lost control.

I flinched when I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see the same nurse.

“Sister, how is she? Is she fine? Is our baby fine?” I asked breathlessly.

“She’s okay,” the nurse said. “She just blacked out from stress and weakness.”

“She’s alright now. And don’t worry about her injury,” she added, scribbling something on her notepad.

“What do you mean? Isn’t her injury something to worry about?” I asked, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“She’s pregnant. Her fetus will help her heal faster. But you have to take care of her mental health,” she said, tearing off the note and handing it to me.

I took it and was about to rush toward the pharmacy when her voice stopped me.

“Easy, young man. It’s just multivitamins. Sign here and take your wife home,” she said, showing me the sheet.

Confusion filled my mind.

“Doesn’t she need to stay under observation?” I asked, frowning.

She gave me a look like I had grown horns.

“We can’t keep her. She’s fine. These things are common in the first trimester. You better learn the basics. Man, you were behaving like a psychopath…”

She left the sentence incomplete as someone called her from behind.

I went to Taniya. She was lying on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling like it was the eighth wonder of the world.

I don’t know if she didn’t notice me or if she was deliberately ignoring me, but she didn’t acknowledge my presence.

Her hand was wrapped in gauze, and my mind returned to the nurse’s words:

*Her fetus will help her heal soon.*

How precious is that? My child helping her heal?

But at the same time, how heartbreaking that she wants to end this pregnancy.

Maybe I already knew she was right in her own way. Her religious beliefs would never let her go through with this pregnancy.

But somewhere in my heart, I had hoped she would grow to love our baby. The child would eat, sleep, and rest in her womb for nine long months—how could she not feel attached?

But her lifeless eyes told a different story.

“We have to go, Taniya,” I said hesitantly.

She remained still for a few moments, then slowly sat up.

I stepped forward to help her, and she didn’t resist. She let me help her.

Isn’t this the same woman who cried for a divorce?

Hell, these pregnancy hormones.

As things started to feel a little normal, I noticed she wasn’t wearing her dupatta or chador—something she always wore.

And as my mind returned to its usual self, the thought of another man seeing her like this burned me.

Swallowing hard, I helped her stand, and without thinking, I pulled the white hospital sheet from the bed and gently covered her head and body. Only a little part of her eyes remained visible.

I noticed tears in her eyes—maybe from the pain?

So I held her in my arms, and she held onto my shoulder for support.

People stared at us, but I didn’t care. At the reception, I paid the bill—and extra for the chador.

I didn’t want her to have anything for free. In my dictionary, free means useless and unworthy.

And for me, she’s worth more than anything. That chador? It meant everything at that moment—it hid my treasure.

A strange sense of satisfaction crept into my heart. Only I had the right to see what lay beneath that medicated sheet.

We reached home. But she was silent like hell during or ride back Home,

Her silence is killing me, my mind is saying everything is alright, but my heart is barking like a mad dog,

Something had already changed, and I don't know what?

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One word for shoaib? 🤣😅

Unedited