"Let's get it done fast. Come." Aaradhya's hand stilled mid-stroke. "What?" "You heard me." He didn't repeat himself. Just turned and walked toward the bed, sitting on the edge, looking at her with empty eyes. No warmth. No desire. Just obligation. "Today's the day. Your app said so. Let's get it done." Get it done. The words landed like stones. She stood on unsteady legs, setting the comb down with a soft click. Walked toward him because she didn't know what else to do, because this was what they were supposed to be doing, because stopping felt like admitting defeat. He didn't stand to meet her. Didn't pull her close. Didn't kiss her. He simply lay back on the bed, pulling his trousers down just enough to free himself, already half-hard from biology rather than want. "Get on top. It'll be faster." Aaradhya hesitated, standing beside the bed. "Armaan, can we talk about—" "No." The word was final. Absolute. "I don't want to talk. I want to finish this." She climbed onto the bed, positioning herself over him, still fully clothed in her t-shirt and pants. He didn't help her. Didn't touch her. Just lay there with his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling, waiting. She pulled her pants down just enough, positioned herself above him, and sank down slowly. It hurt. She wasn't ready, wasn't aroused, and the stretch burned as she took him inside. A sharp gasp escaped her, her fingers digging into his shoulders for balance. Armaan didn't react to her pain. Didn't ask if she was okay. His hands stayed behind his head, not touching her, not guiding her, not participating beyond the physical fact of his body inside hers. "Move," he said, voice flat. Aaradhya began to move, rising and falling with mechanical, awkward motions. Without arousal, without his hands on her, without any connection, the friction was uncomfortable, bordering on painful. Each descent sent a dull ache through her hips, her body resisting the intrusion. She looked at his face, searching for something—anything—a softening, a glance, a whisper of the man who used to make love to her like she was sacred. Nothing. Just a body beneath hers, using her, completing a biological function. His jaw was tight, clenched, anger still evident in every line of his face. He wasn't enjoying this. Wasn't present with her. Was just enduring it, waiting for it to end. "Faster," he said, not looking at her. She moved faster, her thighs burning, the discomfort intensifying with each stroke. She bit her lip to keep from making sounds—not pleasure, not pain, just the effort of moving, of completing this task. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Her legs ached. Her hips hurt. She felt raw inside, the lack of arousal making every movement scrape and burn. Armaan's breathing remained even, controlled, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. No sounds of pleasure. No engagement. Just mechanical endurance. "Almost," he grunted finally, some thirty minutes in. His hips snapped up slightly, meeting her movements with more force, chasing his own release with single-minded focus. **"Keep going." She kept moving, tears pricking her eyes from the physical discomfort and the emotional devastation. Her thighs shook with effort, with strain, with the pain of being used like an object. He grabbed her hips finally—not to guide her, not to connect with her, but to hold her still as he thrust upward harder, faster, using her body to finish. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, and he drove deep, holding himself there as he spilled inside her. She felt it—the hot pulses, the marking, the claiming that felt like anything but. He stayed buried for a moment, breathing finally uneven, then withdrew immediately. No lingering. No collapse against her. No whispered words. He pulled his trousers up, tucking himself away, and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. "Done," he said. One word. Forty minutes of mechanical, painful intimacy, and all she got was done. Aaradhya remained frozen above him, pants pulled down, exposed, his release already leaking onto her thighs. She didn't move to clean herself. Couldn't. Her legs shook, her hips ached, and her chest felt like it had been carved hollow. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. "Armaan—" Her voice broke. "Don't." He stood, not looking back. **"I can't. Not tonight." He walked toward the bathroom, pausing at the door. For a moment, she thought he might turn. Might say something. Might look at her like he used to. "You should clean up," he said instead. **"It's better for conception." Then he closed the door behind him.