Behind her, Ranbir leans back against the carved chair, his lips curved into that insufferable smirk he wears like a second skin. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his gaze bounces between Poorvi and Meher bhabhi-sa, slow, deliberate, like he’s cataloguing weaknesses. My jaw clenches so tightly I can hear the crack of my own teeth. I want to put my fist through that smug face of his.
Maasi-sa continues, unfazed. “I simply worry for this family. A queen who dislikes her crown, a princess who—well, let’s not dwell on her beginnings.” Her eyes glimmer as if she’s enjoying our restraint, waiting for one of us to snap.
Bhai-sa leans forward, his voice carrying that calm authority that makes rooms listen. “You mistake your role, Maasi-sa. You are here as family. Not judge. Not jury. And certainly not an executioner. Remember that.”[1]
I smirk despite the anger simmering in my chest. His way of handling her—measured, controlled—is the exact opposite of mine. Where he draws lines with quiet steel, I want to draw swords.
Maasi-sa just sighs, patting her pallu as though we’re children throwing tantrums. “Such passion. Such fire. One wonders if it’s love or simply rebellion.” Her gaze flickers again—this time landing squarely on Poorvi, who’s sitting beside Sitara and Meher bhabhi-sa.
As she rises to leave, the rustle of her sari filling the silence, she glides past the women. Leaning down, she whispers something into Poorvi’s ear. I can’t hear the words, but I see the effect instantly—Poorvi’s eyes widen, her shoulders stiffen, and then… she looks down. Away. The light I always see in her face dims, just like that.
My vision tunnels. My pulse roars in my ears.
I don’t believe in raising hands against women. I was raised better than that. But in this moment, every fiber of me aches with the need todo something. Because no one—no one—gets to make my wife bow her head like that.
Maasi-sa walks away with that wicked little smile plastered across her face, Ranbir trailing behind her with his smirk still intact.
I don’t wait. I stride straight to where Poorvi sits, ignoring the looks, ignoring the noise. Her hand is resting in her lap, still and small, and I take it firmly into mine. Without a word, without offering explanations, I lead her out of the room. The murmur of voices from the staff fades behind us, swallowed by the corridors as I walk faster until I’m sure no one else is around.
I stop, turning to her. My chest is tight, my jaw locked. “What did she say?”
Poorvi looks up at me, startled. Then she smiles—a sad, small curve of her lips that only makes my chest ache more. “Nothing.”
“Poorvi,” I say sternly, not letting her look away.
She sighs softly, eyes flickering down. “Nothing unusual. Just that I didn’t belong in the royalty.”
Nothing unusual.The phrase ricochets in my head, and something inside me nearly snaps. That’s what she calls it? To be told she doesn’t belong? To be made to feel small in a place that ishers now?
I clench my jaw, fighting the storm raging inside me. Then I step closer, lifting her chin gently with my thumb so she has no choice but to meet my eyes.
“Meri jaan,” I whisper, the endearment slipping out before I can second-guess it. Her eyes widen instantly, as though the word itself unsettles her more than the insult did.
“This is our home,” I say firmly, my thumb grazing her skin softly as if to balance the steel in my voice. “We get to decide who comes and goes. Who belongs here, who doesn’t. Not the other way around. Do you understand?”
She blinks at me, her lips parting slightly, like she’s struggling to process not just my words, but the fact that I called hermeri jaan.
“You will be where you want to be, Poorvi,” I add, softer this time. “No one tells my wife where she belongs. Okay?”
Her lips tremble into a smile, a small nod following after. It’s tentative, like she doesn’t quite know how to believe me yet.
But she will.
And as I stand there, her hand still in mine, her chin still lifted under my thumb, I know one thing for certain—anyone who tries to dim her, break her, or make her feel less than she is, will have to go through me first.
And I don’t care who they are.
CHAPTER 15
Undone
POORVI
It’s my first public event after marriage. Only the second in my entire life.
I should be used to silks and heavy jewelry by now, but tonight, the weight feels different. Heavy not just on my shoulders, but in my chest too. Every pin of the dupatta, every piece of gold, every fold of the saree feels like a reminder: don’t mess this up.
What if I stumble? What if I say something wrong? What if I embarrass him?
