I do the opposite.
His fingers graze my bare back as he gathers the dori, his touch feather-light yet enough to send shivers coursing through me. Igrip the edge of the sink tightly, my knuckles whitening as he slowly, deliberately tightens the knot.
It should take a moment. It doesn’t.
He takes his time, his fingertips brushing more skin than necessary, lingering at the curve of my shoulder blade before tracing lightly to the small of my back. My breath comes in short gasps, my eyes fluttering shut against the sensation.
“Too tight?” he asks softly, his voice laced with something that makes my stomach flip.
“N-no,” I manage to whisper.
His chuckle is low, close, and I feel it more than I hear it. He leans in slightly, his lips hovering near my ear. “You’re trembling.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, my chest heaving. “I—I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” His tone is quiet, teasing, but there’s something else beneath it. Something warm, possessive, protective.
The knot is secured, but he doesn’t step back. His hands rest lightly on my waist now, not restraining, but steady, grounding. My eyes meet his in the mirror, and the intensity there nearly undoes me.
“You look beautiful,” he says again, softer this time, not for the world, not for anyone else—just for me.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My chest feels too full, my skin too warm. My lips part but no words come out, just a shaky exhale.
He finally steps back, his touch leaving fire in its absence. Straightening, he smooths his sherwani as if nothing has happened, though the faintest smile tugs at his lips.
“Let’s go, Kunwarani-sa,” he murmurs, opening the door for me as though he hasn’t just unraveled me entirely in a restroom.
I grip the edge of my dupatta tighter as I walk out, my heart still racing, my knees still weak. The event, the people, the chandeliers—all of it feels muted now. The only thing echoing in me is his voice, low and steady, telling me I’m beautiful.
And the memory of his hands, tying me back together when I was falling apart.
CHAPTER 16
The midnight coffee
VIHAAN
It’s almost midnight, and the silence in my study feels heavier than the weight of the papers scattered across my desk. My lamp throws a soft pool of yellow light over the documents—contracts, reports, things that require my signature before dawn. I rub the bridge of my nose and glance at the clock again. Past midnight.
So much for sleep tonight.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking quietly. My mind is still restless, running in circles despite the long hours I’ve already spent here. Numbers blur together. Words lose meaning. All I can think of is how in a few hours, I’ll have to show up at the palace office pretending like I had a full night of rest.
And then—A knock on the door. Soft, hesitant.
I straighten. No one usually disturbs me at this hour. For a second, I wonder if Sitara needs something, or maybe one of the staff. “Come in,” I call, my voice rough with fatigue.
The door opens slowly, and there she is. Poorvi. She’s holding a tray in both hands, her delicate wrists tense from balancing its weight. Two cups sit on it, steam curling up and filling the room with the faint, rich aroma of coffee.
“You’re not asleep?” I ask, surprise leaking into my tone.
She shakes her head gently, her eyes lowered, voice soft enough to make me lean forward to hear. “I thought… you might need some rest. So I made coffee for you.”
For a moment, I don’t move. I just look at her—the way her hair falls in a loose braid over her shoulder, the way her dupatta is slipping from her arm as if it, too, is tired at this hour. She looks so small standing there in the doorway, carrying something for me, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I rise from my chair, take the tray from her before it can slip. “Thank you, Poorvi,” I murmur. My left hand still balances the tray, but my right hand lifts without thought—my fingers brushing under her chin, tilting her face up.
Her eyes finally meet mine. Wide, unsure, glimmering under the lamplight. I smile. I can’t help it.
