CHAPTER 11
The Quiet Party
POORVI
The sound of laughter drifts toward us long before we reach the main hall, soft and warm like a melody threading through the corridors. My heels click against the polished marble floor, and for the tenth time since leaving our chambers, I silently curse myself for choosing these shoes. Or maybe it’s the lehenga. Royal blue, heavier than I expected, embroidered with silver that gleams under the chandeliers. Pretty? Yes. Practical? Absolutely not.
I stumble slightly, the weight pulling me off balance, but before I can steady myself, a hand closes around mine. Firm, steady, warm.
“Careful,” Vihaan murmurs, his voice low enough for only me to hear.
I glance up at him, ready to say something sarcastic about these shoes being a medieval torture device, but the way he’s looking at me makes the words die on my lips. There’s no judgment in his eyes, only that quiet, unshakable calm he seems to carry everywhere he goes. A calm that makes my racing heart slow… just a little.
He doesn’t let go. Instead, his fingers curl slightly around mine as if to say,I’ve got you.I should pull away. People will notice. But the hallways are nearly empty, and his hand feels… safe. So I don’t.
“Thanks,” I mumble, adjusting my dupatta with my free hand, pretending it’s the fabric I’m focused on and not the warm pressure of his palm against mine.
Behind us, two attendants carry a large box wrapped in cream and gold paper. Our gift for Meher. A dress I chose after staring at swatches for half an hour, imagining what color would bring out the brown in her eyes. Her eyes are striking—soft yet sharp.
“Ready?” Vihaan asks softly, giving my hand the slightest squeeze before letting go. I swallow the strange emptiness that comes with the absence of his touch and nod.
As we step into the hall, my breath catches.
Quiet birthday party? That’s what Meher apparently wanted. This? This looks like something straight out of a glossy magazine. Crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, tables draped in ivory silk, soft golden lights bathing the room in warmth. A towering cake gleams in the center like an edible sculpture, and the scent of vanilla and roses hangs in the air.
Maharaj—Bhai-sa, I remind myself—is talking to a cluster of older men near the far end, but my attention catches on to a different scene. Sitara is standing near the window, head tilted, hands on her waist, engaged in what looks like… a duel of words with a tall man in a tailored suit. He’s smiling in that smug, I’m-winning-this-fight kind of way, and Sitara’s eyes are flashing like firecrackers.
Interesting.
A small smile tugs at my lips before Vihaan’s voice cuts in.
“Let’s go.” His tone is gentle, his eyes searching mine for a beat, as if checking whether the grandeur overwhelms me. It does. A little. But his hand brushing against my back, guiding me forward, makes it easier to breathe.
We weave through clusters of guests. Mostly people I don’t recognize but assume are close confidantes or extended family. I try to keep my posture straight and my smile polite, though every nerve in my body screams that I don’t belong. I’ve lived in palaces before, yes, but only as a shadow, never the center of attention. And here, every eye seems to flicker toward us, toward me, just for a moment too long.
Meher is radiant tonight. Simple ivory saree, emerald earrings that match her eyes, hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. She’s laughing, surrounded by children—so many of them—tugging at her hands, showing her crayon-streaked cards and glittery crafts. Her laughter is soft, unforced, the kind that makes people gravitate toward her.
“Happy birthday,” I say when it’s our turn, my voice a little too formal, my smile too wide.
Meher’s eyes crinkle as she pulls me into a hug before I can register what’s happening. I freeze for a heartbeat, then relax into the embrace, surprised at the genuine warmth in it. When she pulls back, her gaze flicks to Vihaan and softens even more.
“Finally,” she says, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “You brought her here before the night ended.”
Vihaan chuckles, and I blink at him. There’s history in that tone, a familiarity that runs deeper than words.
“Maharaj—” I begin, turning toward the man who’s been watching silently, his expression unreadable.
“Poorvi,” Meher cuts in lightly, mock-stern, “what did I tell you the other day? No titles in this family. None. Just call him Bhai-sa.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Right. Sorry, I—Bhai-sa,” I correct myself quickly, and Meher’s face softens again.
“I hope you’re doing okay?” Bhai-sa asks, his voice deep, steady, the kind that carries quiet authority.
I nod. “Yes, I am.” The truth is more complicated, but I can’t say that here. Not when his eyes are so piercing, like he can read lies in the spaces between words.
“Good,” he says simply, but there’s a hint of something—approval, maybe—in the way his gaze lingers before someone calls him away.
When he leaves, Vihaan mutters under his breath, “That was almost painless.”
