I shake my head instinctively. “No, I—”
“Don’t fight it, Poorvi,” he cuts in gently, that teasing curve almost making its way back to his lips.
Then, without warning, his hand lifts. Fingers—warm, sure—tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and I swear the air leaves my lungs. The touch isn’t lingering, not inappropriate, but it’s enough to make every nerve in my body flare awake.
“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” he murmurs, and there’s a smile now. Easy. Carefree. The kind you can’t fake.
I adjust my specs with trembling fingers, desperate for something to do, something to hide how that single touch set me on fire.
“You are a Shekhawat now,” he says suddenly, voice firm, weighty. My head jerks up at the shift in tone. “We take care of each other here.”
I blink at him, words forming and dying in my throat.
“I know things may be hard for you,” he continues, eyes never leaving mine. “You left your home, your family, for me.”
A bitter laugh almost escapes me.Home? Family?I have neither. Never really did. What I had was a roof, nothing more. But I don’t say any of that. It’s not his fault I’ve always been the shadow in someone else’s story.
“I can’t expect you to feel at home suddenly,” he says softly. Then his hand finds mine, slow and deliberate, and squeezes. His palm is warm—so much warmer than mine. “But this is your home now. And you can take your time to realize that.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out. Because what do you say when someone hands you something you’ve craved all your life—belonging—without asking for anything in return?
“Till then,” he adds, that dazzling smile breaking through like sunlight after weeks of rain, “I’ll try to make you realize that.”
The sharp, overwhelming sensation in my chest nearly doubles me over. Why is he being this kind to me? Why does he care enough to sleep in the same room so rumors don’t spread, yet still give me space so I can breathe? Why does he care enough to tell me I belong when no one else ever did?
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat so thick it almost chokes me. “Thank you, Kunwar-sa,” I whisper, because what else can I say?
“It’s Vihaan for you,” he replies, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that I didn’t notice before. “I’m your husband. And if you want me to call you Poorvi, you should call me Vihaan, too. Okay?”
My lips curl before I can stop them, a smile tugging despite the chaos inside me. “Okay…Vihaan,” I breathe, tasting his name for the first time. It feels strange. New. Like something I want to say again, and again, until it’s mine.
“You must be tired?” he asks, his voice gentle again.
I nod, almost pouting without meaning to, and he laughs under his breath.
“Go get changed, and let’s sleep,” he says, then pauses, a frown creasing his forehead. “I mean, you sleep on the bed, and I’ll—”
I smile before he finishes. “I get it, Vihaan,” I interrupt softly.
He stops, stares at me for a beat too long, then smiles back—slow and warm and real. “Okay.”
I stare at him, clueless what’s happening, because I do feel a tug at my heart and I don’t want to stop it.
CHAPTER 8
Among Queens and Stars
POORVI
I smooth the pleats of my purple lehenga for the tenth time, my fingers betraying my nerves even when I tell myself I’m fine. The corridor ahead opens into a sunlit drawing room, and I pause at the threshold, heart thumping like a guilty secret.
You’re his wife now, Poorvi. You belong here.
The first thing I notice when I step into the room is the warmth. Not the physical one that comes from sunlight spilling through arched windows, but the sort that seeps into your bones quietly—like an unspoken welcome.
And then I see them.
Maharani Meher. Rajkumari Sitara.
