I cannot let him see the letter. Cannot let him see me weak.
Instead, I breathe slowly, deeply, telling myself again and again that whatever happens, I will not bend. No matter how much I want his approval, his comfort, his warmth—I will not put his name to shame by making him support people who never supported me.
My stepmother may threaten me with obligation, but my heart knows better. Obligation without love is nothing but chains. And I’ve lived too long with chains cutting into my wrists to let them follow me here.
So I fold into bed quietly, pulling the blanket close. I feel the emptiness at my side where his warmth should be, but he hasn’t returned yet. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe it’s easier to keep my distance when he isn’t near enough to touch.
Still, as I close my eyes, my thoughts whisper the same thing over and over.
Even if he never looks at me with love, even if all of this is a duty to him—I will protect him from them.
Because somewhere deep inside me, I know.
Vihaan Singh Shekawat is the only person who ever truly saw me.
And that has to be enough.
CHAPTER 23
Between Clouds and Silences
POORVI
The hum of the engines is steady, almost too steady, like a low lullaby that I cannot surrender myself to. I sit here, in this leather seat softer than any bed I’ve ever known, and yet my spine feels stiff, my palms restless. Maybe it’s not the seat. Maybe it’s the weight in my chest.
I glance out the oval window, watching the endless expanse of blue stretching and folding like silk. Somewhere beneath those clouds lies the city I left behind, and ahead—his mother, the woman I’ve only ever known through whispers and rumors.
My throat tightens. Everyone spoke about her with awe, fear, or some odd mixture of both. The stories about how she treated Meher... about how strong one had to be to withstand her sharp words, her tests, her silent expectations. And I—well, I am not Meher. I am not strong like her. My walls crack too easily. My heart wears itself on my sleeve even when I beg it not to. What if she sees that and crushes it in one sweep?
“What are you thinking about?”
His voice pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. I turn my head, and Vihaan’s eyes are already on me. Searching. Demanding answers I don’t want to give.
I shake my head quickly, almost too quickly. “Nothing.”
His gaze lingers, skeptical, heavy. Then his brows knit. “You’re cold.”
It’s only then that I notice my fingers trembling where they rest on my lap. He reaches across the small space between us and covers my hand with his. Warm. Steady. Too steady.
I offer him a small, polite smile. “I’m fine, Vihaan.” Gently, I slip my hand from under his, like sliding out of a promise I don’t know how to keep. Before he can say anything else, I reach for the book resting on the seat beside me. I don’t even register its title, just that it’s something to hold, something to hide behind.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his jaw tighten, his chest expand with a deep inhale. Then without a word, he pushes himself up from his seat and walks down the aisle, disappearing behind a half-closed partition.
The silence he leaves behind weighs heavier than his presence. Did I go too far? Was pulling away from his hand too much? Or was it the smile—that shallow, rehearsed thing? I don’t know anymore.
One moment, he’s the man who tucks warmth into my frozen palms, who sees through me like I’m made of glass. The next, I’m just the girl whose family deceived him, the wrong bride sitting in a seat meant for another. Which version of me does he see now? Which version does he want?
I press my thumb against the edge of the book, flipping pages I don’t read. I don’t understand him. I don’t understand us.
The sound of footsteps breaks the storm in my thoughts. I look up, and there he is again, walking back down the aisle. Two cups in his hands, steam curling up in soft spirals, and that smile—the one that always tugs at my heart no matter how much I fight it—is playing on his lips.
He stops before me, holding out one of the cups. “Here. Thought you could use hot chocolate.”
Hot chocolate. Not coffee. Not tea. Something warm, sweet, and oddly childlike. Something that feels like comfort rather than caution. My chest tightens again, but this time in a different way.
I take the cup carefully, our fingers brushing for the briefest second. “Thank you.”
His smile deepens, just enough to make me wonder if he knows the effect it has on me. “Don’t thank me yet. It might be terrible. I had to bribe the attendant into letting me make it myself.”
