Because in this family of crowns and cages, she is the only thing that feels like freedom.
And I will not let anyone take that from her.
CHAPTER 31
Attachment Styles in Adult Relationships
POORVI
The cursor blinks at me like an impatient professor tapping a foot. My assignment document is still mostly empty—just a half-written heading:
“Attachment Styles in Adult Relationships: Patterns and Implications.”
I rub my temples. Of all topics, it had to be this.
I’m supposed to write about how childhood bonds shape the way we love as adults. About how security, avoidance, or anxiousness in early years reflects in the way people attach later. Normally, I’d be fascinated. I chose psychology because I wanted to understand people, the tangle of reasons why we become who we are. But tonight, every word I think of feels too close. Too personal.
Secure attachment. Insecurity. Trust. Mistrust.
I shut my laptop with a little more force than necessary. The sound echoes in my quiet room.
I pick up my phone instead. Big mistake.
The first thing on my feed is a photo from this morning—the courtyard, journalists, and him. Vihaan, tall, composed, every inch the royal head of PR. His words are quoted in bold beneath the picture:
Tradition is not meant to be a weapon against our own blood. Nor against the women we’ve chosen to build our future with.
Blood. Chosen. Future.
I should feel… something good. Relief maybe. Pride. He defended me. He defended us. Against Maasi-sa, of all people. That has to mean something.
But instead, confusion curls through me like smoke. Because I can still hear his voice from that meeting weeks ago. Calm, blunt, unflinching.“They are known for deceiving people, anyway. It doesn’t surprise me.”
How do I reconcile those two Vihaans? The one who stood before reporters today, shielding me with words sharper than steel, and the one who admitted in a room full of men that I was the product of deceit?
My chest tightens.
I don’t know what to make of him. Of us.
A knock on my door startles me. Sitara pushes it open without waiting for an answer, a plate of gujiyas in her hand. “Bhabhi, you have to see this,” she says, plopping beside me and shoving her phone in my face before I can protest.
It’s a clip of the same moment—the press, Maasi-sa, and then Vihaan stepping in. His voice is steady, low, confident. Almost… proud.
“He destroyed her!” Sitara giggles. “The look on Maasi-sa’s face—uff, priceless! You’re so lucky, Poorvi. He’s like… your personal shield.”
I manage a smile, nibbling the corner of the sweet she offers. Shield. Yes. But why? Out of duty? Out of principle? Or something else?
Later, when Sitara leaves, the silence returns, heavy and full.
I reopen my laptop. The title stares at me again. Attachment Styles in Adult Relationships.
I think of Vihaan. The contradictions. The steadiness. The moments when his eyes soften, almost imperceptibly, like this morning when he glanced at me at the breakfast table. And then the moments when his words slice me open, reminding me I don’t fully belong.
What is his attachment style? Avoidant? Dismissive? Or is he simply… guarded, shaped by a world that never allowed him to falter?
And me?
I type a sentence almost without thinking:
