His Name on My Lips
POORVI
The room feels too quiet.
Too quiet for a day that had thousands of voices, hundreds of flashes, a storm of congratulations that didn’t feel like they were meant for me. And now…it’s just this silence. Thick, suffocating, pressing down on my ears like heavy wool.
I sit at the edge of the bed, my maroon lehenga spilling around me like a pool of blood and gold. The veil still covers my face, and I don’t move to lift it. My knees are hugged close to my chest, my chin resting against them like a child trying to disappear in a corner.
I’m not crying. I’m just…empty. Hollow in a way that almost hurts more than tears.
Because I don’t know what happens now.
No one told me what the first night with your husband is supposed to feel like when you’ve never been given a choice. When you said “yes” because it was logical, because he was kind enough to offer you one, but deep down—you’re not ready.
Not for this.
Not for him.
The door unlocks.
My body jerks before my mind catches up. I don’t look up. I can’t. The air shifts as footsteps enter the room, heavy but not harsh. There’s the sound of the door clicking shut again, the faint rustle of silk and…his cologne.
I swallow hard. My heart’s racing so fast it feels like a warning bell in my chest.
The bed dips slightly beside me.
My fingers clutch the fabric of my lehenga tighter, nails biting into my palms. He’s close now. Too close. What am I supposed to say? How do you deny a man who now has every right over you? Do I tell him I’m not ready? Do I beg? Do I—
The veil lifts.
I flinch as cool air touches my face, and my lashes flick up before I can stop them.
And there he is.
Kunwar Vihaan.
Kunwar-sa. But he doesn’t look like the prince everyone else bows to. He looks just like a fellow human—with tired eyes that still somehow hold a glint of warmth, his jaw sharp in the dim golden light of the chandeliers, his lips curved into the faintest hint of something that isn’t a smile but isn’t indifference either.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. My throat is dry, but I force words out anyway. Something. Anything. Before this silence swallows me whole.
“I…” My voice cracks, useless and small.
“We can take things slow,” he whispers, and the way his tone softens—like he’s afraid I’ll break—unravels something inside me.
Relief rushes through me. I nod quickly, too quickly, because if I open my mouth now, I might cry.
He clears his throat, scratching the back of his head, looking almost…awkward? That’s new. “I…don’t want to impose on your privacy,” he says, eyes darting away for the first time tonight. “But I feel it’s best we sleep together…so no one gossips.”
The words slam into me before their meaning does. He just said we can take things slow, didn’t he? My eyes widen, panic clawing up my throat. “I…I…I’m not ready yet, Kunwar sa,” I stutter, shame burning hot under my skin.
His brows shoot up, and then realization dawns in his eyes like a struck match. “Oh no,” he blurts, hands raised as if warding off the thought. “I don’t meansleep—” He gestures wildly toward the bed. “I just meant…we can sleep in the same room. That’s it.”
A sound bursts out of me then—half a laugh, half a sigh, tangled with relief so sharp it’s almost dizzying. I cover my mouth, but it’s too late. The laugh is out there between us.
He chuckles too, shaking his head like he can’t believe this just happened. And for a brief second, the room doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says finally, motioning toward the long velvet one by the window.
