My pulse quickens, my hands twisting together as I glance into the mirror. The reflection staring back looks… regal. Too regal. Almost like she isn’t me at all. The maroon of my lehenga shimmers faintly under the light, the blouse fitting perfectly, the heavy dupatta framing me like I belong to another world. A world that doesn’t belong to me.
“Poorvi.”
I turn at the sound of his voice.
Vihaan stands at the doorway, in his black sherwani embroidered with silver thread that catches the light with every shift. But it isn’t his attire that steals the air from my lungs—it’s the way he’s looking at me. Like I’ve stolen his.
“You look beautiful,” he says simply, like it’s a fact he couldn’t deny even if he wanted to.
The words warm something deep in me, but the way his eyes remain fixed on me—dark, unwavering, as if he doesn’t want to look anywhere else—makes my knees weak. I drop my gaze quickly, pretending to adjust the pleats at my waist, because if I keep looking at him, I might fall apart right here.
“I… thank you,” I murmur, hoping he doesn’t notice how my voice trembles.
He does, of course. I can see it in the slight quirk of his lips.
The carriage ride is silent, but not uncomfortable. His hand finds mine as though it belongs there, warm and steady, and he doesn’t let go even when we step out into the hall flooded with chandeliers and voices.
My heart pounds. So many eyes. So many smiles that don’t feel like smiles. I want to shrink, to disappear into the folds of my lehenga. But his hand remains anchored around mine, strong, sure.
Even when important people come to shake his hand, he only shifts enough to use his left, keeping his right hand firmly curled around mine. I glance up at him in surprise.
Two kinds of smiles. I notice it now. This one—the one he offers them—is polite, restrained, carefully measured. But the other one, the one I’ve seen in the quiet of our room, whenI’ve said something unintentionally silly, or when he catches me watching him—it’s that smile that undoes me. That smile I cannot survive.
I’m staring. I know I am, but I can’t stop. My husband shakes hands with ministers and businessmen, and all I can do is wonder how someone like him ended up with someone like me.
And then it happens.
The dori at the back of my blouse shifts, loosening slightly. My stomach drops as I feel the neckline dip, not dangerously, but enough to panic.
“I’ll… excuse me for a moment,” I whisper to him, forcing a smile before slipping away, weaving through the crowd and into the women’s restroom.
The mirror greets me again, and I nearly groan in frustration. My fingers twist awkwardly behind me, reaching for the stubborn string, but the knot has loosened in such a way that it slips every time I try to grab it. My nails scratch against my skin, my arms ache from the angle, and my breath comes quicker with every failed attempt.
The door opens.
I freeze. My heart leaps into my throat.
And then his voice, calm and maddeningly steady: “Need help?”
I whip around, eyes wide. “Vihaan!” My whisper comes out harsh, almost a hiss. “This is the ladies’ room.”
“I know,” he replies, completely unfazed, leaning casually against the doorframe as though this isn’t scandalous at all. “But I also know only my wife is in here.”
I gape at him. “You—you can’t just—”
“I can,” he interrupts smoothly, stepping further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoes too loudly in the silence. His eyes hold mine, unreadable, but there’s a glint there—a spark that steals my breath. “Now, do you want to keep struggling? Or let me help you?”
My pulse hammers so loud I’m sure he can hear it. My fingers flutter uselessly at the strings behind me, and I whisper, “This is—this is improper.”
He takes another step closer, his voice low, deliberate. “Improper would be letting my wife stand here helpless when I can fix it in seconds.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
“Turn around, Poorvi,” he murmurs.
The way he says my name—firm, commanding, yet impossibly gentle—makes my knees weak. Slowly, hesitantly, I turn, my back now facing him. My reflection in the mirror shows his gaze trailing down my spine, lingering at the loose tie of the blouse.
“Breathe,” he whispers, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushes my ear.
