The door.
My head snaps up so fast I almost drop my dupatta. Vihaan stands at the entrance, one hand casually resting against the doorframe. He looks… unreasonably good in a crisp white kurta, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he walked out of a magazine shoot without trying. His eyes find mine instantly, and something flickers there—something I can’t name.
Sitara follows my gaze, and then her lips curl into the most wicked grin I’ve ever seen. She wiggles her eyebrows at me, and I swear my face bursts into flames.
“Poorvi,” he says, his voice low, that hint of huskiness curling around my name like smoke. “Can I steal you for a moment?”
Before I can react, Meher speaks, her tone light but teasing. “You can talk in front of us, too, Vihaan.”
Vihaan laughs, that low, easy sound that does ridiculous things to my heartbeat. “Again, Bhai-sa won’t like it, Bhabhi-sa, if I say the same.” He raises an eyebrow as if it’s their inside joke.
Meher squints at him, and the entire exchange feels so effortlessly playful that for a second, I forget to breathe.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to Sitara and Meher, getting to my feet before my blush burns through my skin.
As I walk toward Vihaan, I can feel Sitara’s gaze drilling into my back like a nosy little spotlight. I don’t dare look at her.
Vihaan smiles as I stop in front of him, and suddenly, the world narrows to just us. “Are you okay?”
I blink. “I… yes.” I nod, a little too quickly.
“Okay,” he says, like that settles everything. But he doesn’t move. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, eyes steady on mine.
After a beat of silence, the question slips out before I can stop it. “You came all the way here… to ask me if I’m okay?” I gape at him. Because really? He could’ve sent a message. A staff member. Anything.
But he nods, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s very important to me to know if you’re comfortable or not.”
My throat tightens, words tangling like threads.I’m fine, Vihaan.I try to hide the storm inside. “Thank you so much for asking,” I whisper.
His brows knit, and then his expression shifts, something like irritation flickering there. “Don’t thank me,” he says sharply enough to make me blink. “It makes me feel like someone’s paying me to be your husband.” He huffs out a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m your husband. I’m supposed to care about you.”
The words should comfort me, but instead they sting—just a little. Because duty isn’t love. Obligation isn’t care. But am I expecting love out of this marriage? I really don’t know the answer to that. But a girl can only dream, right? Especially if her husband is so polite, so caring—more than anyone she has ever met, more than her own family. Until and unless this is all a facade, I think I want to hope a bit. I had stopped hoping a long time ago. Maa used to say hope is the biggest strength and weakness a human can have.
I stare at him, my voice dropping to a whisper I’m not sure he’ll even hear. “I don’t want it if you’re doing it just because you’re supposed to.”
For a heartbeat, silence stretches taut between us. Then his hand lifts, slow and steady, and tilts my chin up with two fingers. My breath catches as his eyes lock on mine—dark, intent, holding me in place.
“I’m sorry for the choice of my words,” he says softly, and the sincerity there makes something in my chest ache. “I do care about you.”
And then he smiles. So gently. So genuinely. The kind of smile that steals all your defenses and leaves you standing there, bare and breathless.
I smile back, helpless against it.
Inside my head, one thought beats loud and clear:You’re dangerous, Vihaan Shekhawat. Not because you’re powerful. But because you’re kind. And I don’t know what that will do to me.
CHAPTER 9
Shadows Between Crowns
VIHAAN
The sound of my boots against the marble floor echoes as I walk toward the council chamber. My brothers are already inside—Devraj bhai-sa is standing near the tall window, his hands clasped behind his back, and Veeraj is slouched in a chair like he owns the damn place. Typical. The morning papers are scattered across the table, and even from the door, I can see the bold headlines screaming about the Sisodiya alliance.
I push the door shut behind me, the click sharper than I intend.
“They’re having a field day,” I mutter, striding in and snatching one of the papers.‘Historic Union Between Sisodiya and Shekawat Dynasties’. Historic, my ass. I skim through the first few lines, my jaw tightening as words likepolitical coupandpower mergeglare back at me. Not a word about her—about Poorvi—as if she’s nothing more than a bargaining chip.
Veeraj grins lazily. “You expected otherwise? Come on, Vihaan. The press lives for this crap.”
