I look down, not at the button, but at her. At the way her lashes lower, at the nervous way she fiddles with the thread still between her fingers.
“Perfect,” I murmur.
Her eyes lift in surprise. “You haven’t even checked—”
“I wasn’t talking about the button,” I say, voice low, and her blush deepens instantly.
Before she can argue, I reach out, my hand cupping the side of her head gently, and press a kiss to her forehead.
She freezes, then exhales slowly, her eyes fluttering shut.
“Have a good day, Poorvi,” I whisper against her skin.
When I pull back, she’s still standing there, stunned, her fingers curled tightly around the needle. And I… I’m grinning like a man who just won something far more valuable than a council’s approval.
The button is fixed. But it feels like something else—something deeper, more fragile—was stitched together too.
CHAPTER 19
The Words I Wasn’t Meant to Hear
POORVI
I am still standing there, toes curling against the carpet, my heart fluttering like a nervous bird trapped inside its cage.
“Have a good day, Poorvi.”
His voice lingers in my ears, soft and warm, but it’s the ghost of his lips against my forehead that has me rooted to the spot. A gentle press, fleeting yet powerful enough to undo me entirely. My skin tingles where he kissed me, and I’m sure if I touched that spot right now, it would still be warm.
I should have said something back. Something.
Oh no. I didn’t even say have a good day too. What kind of wife forgets the simplest reply? He must think I’m foolish. Or maybe he didn’t notice. But he notices everything, doesn’t he? The way my glasses slip, the way I fidget with my dupatta, the way I struggle to hide the tremor in my voice. Of course, he noticed.
I bury my face in my hands, groaning softly. I should definitely go tell him now. Right? Just a quick visit. A small smile. A quiet “have a good day.” That’s all.
Is that really all, Poorvi?I bite my lip. No, maybe not. Maybe I just want to see him once more before he leaves. Maybe I want to catch another smile, the one that’s only for me. Maybe I’m being selfish.
But he’s my husband. My husband. I have the right to see him if I want to. Don’t I?
I straighten, adjusting the dupatta of my lehenga nervously, and smile to myself. Yes. That’s all I’ll do. Wish him, smile, and come back. Nothing more.
The corridors are quieter than usual this morning, though my footsteps echo far louder than I want them to. I take my time walking toward the council chamber, the walls of the palace grand and intimidating, but somehow less frightening when I remind myself he is here, somewhere behind those doors.
The guards outside glance at me respectfully. My fingers hover above the wood, ready to knock, but the muffled voices from inside stop me.
“—they played you, Vihaan.”
My stomach twists. Played him?
“They gave you the wrong princess,” the voice continues, deep and authoritative. “And you didn’t even protest.”
My heart clenches painfully, my hand freezing mid-air.
Another voice—Vihaan’s. Calm, steady, familiar. “They are known for deceiving people, anyway. It doesn’t surprise me.”
The world tilts. I stumble back, pressing my palm against the cold stone wall.
The wrong princess.
