Like this morning, when I’d asked her if she wanted to go for a walk. She’d said she had some assignment to complete, turning and walking away from me as though she couldn’t bear to hold the moment longer than necessary. Or, like this evening at dinner when I tried asking about her classes, and she responded tensely, then excusing herself earlier than usual. And now… now we’re here. In our chamber. Night pressing against the windows, silence pressing heavier inside.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully unpinning her earrings as though that tiny task needs all her attention. I watchher, leaning back against the armchair near the window, trying not to stare but failing miserably.
Her profile is lit by the warm lamp on the bedside table. The curve of her cheek, the dark line of her lashes, the way her fingers hesitate just a second too long before setting the earring down. She’s distracted, yes, but it’s more than that.
She’s keeping something from me.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension gathering there. If I push too much, she might retreat further. If I stay quiet, this distance between us might grow into something harder to bridge.
I can’t let that happen.
“Poorvi,” I say softly, watching her shoulders stiffen slightly at the sound of her name. “I was thinking… we should go meet my mother.”
Her head turns, eyes blinking as though she didn’t expect that.
“My mother couldn’t attend our wedding because of the banishment,” I continue carefully, my voice lower now. “But… if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take you to see her.”
There’s a pause, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before she lowers them again. “It’s okay,” she whispers. Her tone is calm, polite, but distant. Not the way she used to sound when she agreed to something.
I lean forward slightly, searching her face. “Do I have to take something for her?” she asks after a beat, her voice quieter still, almost like she’s asking out of duty rather than curiosity.
I shake my head. “No. There’s no need. Just you being there will be enough for her.”
Silence stretches again, filling the space between us like water rising slowly, drowning out what I want to say next. I watch her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes fixed on the earrings she placed on the table as though it holds answers.
“Is everything okay, Poorvi?” I ask finally, my voice no louder than the rustle of the curtains against the night breeze.
Her lips part, but for a moment she doesn’t answer. Then, too quickly, she says, “Yes. I’m just a bit sleepy. Good night.”
There it is. The brush-off. Again.
I sit there, staring at her as she lies down and pulls the blanket up to her chin, her back half-turned toward me. My chest tightens, an ache that’s more than I can manage. I should leave it, let her rest, but the truth is I’m restless.
I’ve spent years handling the most difficult part, the media, holding my ground against enemies who wanted nothing more than to see me broken. And yet, here I am, undone by the quiet withdrawal of the woman lying a few feet away from me.
I want to demand—tell me what’s wrong, tell me why you won’t look at me the way you did before, tell me what I did.But I don’t. Because what if pushing makes her retreat further? What if she builds walls I’ll never get through?
So I stay silent.
I lean back in the chair, tilting my head against the wood, my eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of her shoulders. She looks so small under the blanket, so breakable. And maybe that’s whatscares me most—that she might be breaking, and I don’t even know why.
Her breaths even out slowly, but mine don’t. My mind won’t still.
I think of her laugh, soft and hesitant, the way it slips past her lips when she forgets to be cautious. I think of the way she kissed my cheek the other night, shy and fleeting, but enough to set my chest burning for hours after. I think of how she blushed when I pressed my lips to her forehead, as though she hadn’t expected me to want to at all.
Those moments—those fragile, precious things—we’ve barely begun to build them. And already, it feels like they’re slipping through my fingers.
I close my eyes, clenching my hands into fists, forcing myself to breathe slowly.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll try again. I’ll find a way to reach her without making her feel cornered. I’ll show her that she doesn’t need to hide from me, that whatever is in her heart—fear, doubt, anything—I want to carry it with her.
But tonight, all I can do is sit here in the quiet, listening to her soft breathing, and wonder when silence between us started to feel heavier than words ever could.
CHAPTER 22
The Wrong Princess
POORVI
