Demon's Physco obsession

Bonus chapter: What We Choose Together

The third day after Aarav's birth dawned soft and golden, but the private suite at Vashisth Hospital felt suddenly too small, too sterile, too full of beeping monitors and brisk footsteps echoing in the corridor.

Ankita had been discharged that morning—much to Adhiraaj's visible dismay.

He had argued strenuously when the obstetrician placed the discharge papers on the bedside table. His voice, usually so measured, had sharpened with barely contained panic. "She's still wincing with every movement. The afterpains are not trivial. And Aarav—he's barely three days old. Too small. Too new. What if something happens at home? I want another twenty-four hours. Minimum."

The doctor, calm and practised, had explained gently: for an uncomplicated vaginal delivery, three days was more than sufficient in most cases—vital signs stable, bleeding controlled, breastfeeding established, no signs of fever or infection. Home was safe with follow-up visits scheduled, a paediatrician on call, and the estate already equipped like a small clinic thanks to Ved's foresight.

Adhiraaj's jaw had clenched. "I will cover any additional costs. I will hire round-the-clock nurses here if needed. But they are not leaving yet."

Ankita, propped against pillows with Aarav nestled against her chest in a soft swaddle, had watched the exchange in exhausted silence. The adrenaline that had carried her through labour had long since ebbed, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and something sharper: a creeping, suffocating dread of the hospital itself. The antiseptic smell clung to everything. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Every time a nurse entered to check vitals or adjust the bassinet, her pulse quickened irrationally, memories of endless contractions and bright procedure rooms flashing behind her eyes. She was young, still navigating the raw newness of motherhood, and the constant professional attention—while comforting in theory—now felt like surveillance as she might never be trusted to care for her own child without eyes on her.

She had finally spoken, voice quiet but firm despite the fatigue etching lines around her mouth. "Ji... I can't stay here longer. I need to go home."

Adhiraaj had turned to her, eyes flashing with protest, but the plea in her expression stopped him cold. She looked small against the starched sheets, Aarav's tiny fist curled near her collarbone, and the fear in her gaze wasn't just about pain or the baby's fragility—it was deeper, primal. Hospitals, for her in that moment, had become synonymous with vulnerability stretched too thin.

Before he could respond, Shakuntala swept in like a force of nature, saree rustling, eyes narrowed.

"Enough, Adhiraaj," she said without preamble. "You've hovered, you've guarded, you've turned this place into your personal fortress. But look at her. She's not asking for luxury—she's asking to breathe. To hold her son in her own bed, under her own roof, without machines reminding her every second that something could still go wrong."

Adhiraaj's shoulders stiffened. "Bua—"

Shakuntala raised a hand, unyielding. "If you force her to stay even one more hour against her will, I will take Kittu and the baby to my house myself. And you can argue with lawyers instead of doctors."

The threat hung heavy—not theatrical, but real. Shakuntala had never bluffed, and everyone in the room knew it.

Adhiraaj exhaled through his nose, the fight visibly draining from him. He looked from his aunt to his wife—pale, determined, cradling their son like the most precious shield—and finally nodded once, curt and reluctant.

"Fine," he said tightly. "But the moment anything feels off—anything—we come straight back. No discussion."

Ankita's shoulders sagged in visible relief. She reached for his hand, squeezing weakly. "Thank you, Ji."