“I am not grumpy.”
“You’re always grumpy,” Vihaan cuts in smoothly, leaning against the arm of a chair.
Veeraj Kunwar-sa shoots him a look, but Sitara giggles, tugging him toward the cushions. To my astonishment, he doesn’t resist much. He settles on the edge, his arms crossed, but he stays.
The room feels alive.
Sitara keeps the banter going, teasing both her brothers mercilessly. “Look at you, sneaking like children,” she says to bhai-sa and Vihaan. “Kings and princes, yet not brave enough to announce you wanted popcorn.”
Devraj shakes his head, reserved but indulgent. “If I announced it, Sitara, you’d have ordered me out.”
“Correct,” she chirps.
Meher chuckles softly. “She’s not wrong.”
The conversation flows like water. Jibes from Sitara, dry remarks from Veeraj Kunwar-sa, Vihaan countering with smooth wit, and Bhai-sa offering the occasional low reply that carries more weight in its silence than in words.
I sit quietly at first, watching, learning. It feels like stepping into the middle of a dance I don’t know the steps to. But gradually, the rhythm pulls me in. A teasing comment here, a laugh there, and suddenly, I am part of their circle.
And then—without warning—Vihaan’s arm brushes mine.
I freeze.
The film flickers on, but all I feel is the slow, deliberate warmth of his presence. His arm shifts, sliding lightly, almost carelessly, around my shoulders.
My first instinct is to move away. To remind myself of his words, of the wound still fresh inside me.
But I don’t.
Because for all the hurt that memory brings, the warmth of his touch is grounding, safe in a way I haven’t known in years. His scent—sandalwood, faint smoke from the earlier puja—wraps around me, and my eyes sting.
I stare at the screen without seeing it. Inside, I am torn. Between the ache of betrayal and the undeniable comfort of this moment. Between the voice in my head whisperingwrong princessand the whisper in my heart insistingsafe.
I don’t move.
Not even when Sitara leans forward, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Poorvi bhabi-sa, you’re very quiet,” she says suddenly. “Don’t let them drown you out. Trust me, they all need to be humbled.”
The others chuckle, but my lips only curve faintly. I don’t trust my voice right now.
Instead, I let myself lean—just slightly—into the warmth beside me.
For tonight, just tonight, maybe that is enough.
CHAPTER 30
Crisis Control
VIHAAN
The Shekhawat name is both a crown and a cage. I’ve known that since the moment I was old enough to read a headline.
This morning should have been routine—reviewing press notes, signing off on schedules, approving which charity event Bhai-sa would attend and which ones could be politely declined. Nothing unusual, nothing dramatic. That’s how I like it. I control the narrative. I decide which part of our lives the world gets to see.
But control is a fragile thing. And when Maasi-sa is involved, it crumbles faster than dry parchment.
It begins with a call from one of the junior PR officers. His voice is shaky. “Kunwar-sa… there’s a situation.”
The wordsituationis never good.
