After returning to her room, she found her mind racing, haunted by a single question: What compelled him to call me Pihu? She changed out of her scrubs, swallowed a painkiller to dull the sharp cramps in her stomach, and collapsed onto her bed. The day’s exhaustion finally claimed her, but as she drifted into a restless sleep, one nagging, persistent thought pulsed in her mind: He’s a strict vegetarian… and I love my chicken. How could I ever settle for a life of only greens?
Across the city, Dr. Rohan sat in his villa, staring blankly at the dark surface of his swimming pool. In his hand, a glass of amber liquid—alcohol—caught the moonlight. He wasn't thinking about hospital politics or the precision of surgical instruments; he was staring at his own palm, replaying the phantom sensation of her waist gripped firmly in his hand. His face flushed with a sudden, betraying rush of heat that cut through the cold night air. But beneath the desire lay a gnawing, cynical skepticism. He felt he knew everything about her professional life, yet her personal world remained a tantalizing enigma—a riddle he was both frustrated and fascinated to solve.
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