What strikes me most isn’t the demand itself—it’s that Poorvi hasn’t breathed a word of this to me.
Why?
I run a hand through my hair, staring at the floor. She’s been here, in my home, in my life, for months now. Slowly, she has become part of my days, my nights, my every breath in ways I hadn’t planned. And yet this… this she kept from me.
It shouldn’t wound me, but it does. Not because of the letter’s contents—I would do it. For her, I would sign a hundred contracts, fund a thousand ventures. She doesn’t even need to convince me. She doesn’t need to ask twice.
But she hasn’t asked once.
I press the folded paper to my thigh, my knuckles whitening. Maybe she doesn’t trust me enough yet. Maybe she thinks I will turn her away, mock her for bringing me such a request. Maybe she still feels like an outsider here, even though I’ve tried—God, I’ve tried—to make sure she knows she belongs.
Or maybe… maybe she simply doesn’t want anything from me.
The thought cuts deeper than I expect.
For so long, people around me have wanted something—my name, my protection, my strategies, my influence. Poorvi never has. Not once. She takes nothing, asks for nothing, as though she believes she deserves nothing.
And that is what unsettles me most.
Because if she asked—if she so much as hinted—I would give. I would pour every ounce of what I have into her palms without hesitation. Wealth, power, alliances—none of it matters when it comes to her. She is my wife. My only.
But she doesn’t ask.
She folds letters like these away, hides them somewhere I was never meant to see.
Why?
I lean back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece it together. Is she protecting me? From them? From being dragged into their games? Or is she protecting herself, afraid I’ll refuse and she’ll stand humiliated between two families?
I don’t know. And the not knowing gnaws at me.
The door creaks faintly down the hall and I straighten, slipping the letter into my drawer. I don’t want her to see it in my hand, not yet. I need time. Time to decide whether I should bring it up or let it be.
The questions churn in me: do I wait for her to come to me, or do I confront her gently, show her that she doesn’t need to carry this alone?
I rub my thumb over the ridge of the drawer handle, the echo of the letter burning in my chest.
All I know is this: if she asks—if she even whispers—I will say yes.
Always yes.
For her, I would do anything.
The main question, however, is who put it in my suitcase? It couldn’t have been Poorvi; whoever it was wanted me to see this, perhaps as an attempt to cause a rift between us. Moreover, how did they even know Poorvi had received this letter when not even I knew? I need to find out before whoever it is ruins something.
Or maybe everything.
CHAPTER 27
Reins Between Us
POORVI
The stables smell faintly of hay and earth, warm under the morning sun. A couple of horses shift in their stalls, the low sounds they make breaking the silence that has been stretched between Vihaan and me since last night.
I stand just outside, my hands brushing over the wooden railing, trying to keep myself steady. I didn’t sleep much, not with the weight of his silence pressing down on me. I can tell he’s upset, though he hasn’t said why. Then again, I’ve been holding things inside me too—words that tangle in my throat whenever I try to let them out.
“Poorvi,” his voice cuts through, smooth but firm, carrying that trace of command he doesn’t even realize he holds.
