“Sometimes, the line between protection and distance is so fine that you cannot tell whether someone is pulling you closer or holding you away.”
I stare at it. My own confession hidden inside academic language.
Maybe that’s what this is. A study, not just of theory, but of us.
And maybe, if I can untangle the truth of him, of myself, I’ll finally know whether this fragile bond we’ve begun to build is rooted in security… or illusion.
CHAPTER 32
Stay away
POORVI
The silence of the library is almost holy. Heavy with dust, the faint smell of old paper, and the crisp rustle of pages turning somewhere far off. I’m seated at a long wooden desk, pen in hand, my notes spread out in neat, desperate rows.
“Defense mechanisms in Freud’s theory,” I whisper under my breath, jotting down a line. “Projection, displacement, repression...” My handwriting tightens, ink pooling where I press too hard.
It’s strange how much this subject mirrors my own life. The ways people twist and bend reality to protect themselves, to avoid the sting of truth. How often have I done the same? Buried things, pretended, smiled through.
I rub my temples, leaning back, staring at the high arched ceiling of the palace library. Even here, surrounded by knowledge, by silence, my mind drifts back to Vihaan.
A sudden crash jolts me from my thoughts.
The sound is sharp, metallic—like something heavy colliding with the brass door handle. My pen slips from my fingers, rolling across the table. My pulse leaps to my throat.
I push back the chair, my feet carrying me before I even think. The grand doors of the library loom, one slightly ajar, and as I reach, I see him.
Ranbir bhai-sa.
He’s leaning against the doorframe as though he owns the place, one hand braced on the polished wood. A stack of books lies scattered near his feet, the crash explained, but his eyes aren’t on the books. They’re on me.
And the curve of his lips—it isn’t kind. It isn’t even mischievous. It’s something darker, sharper. The kind of smile that slices.
My stomach lurches. His eyes are red and he looks drunk.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is thinner than I want it to be. I force my chin up.
“Just passing through.” His tone drips with amusement, but his eyes stay fixed on me in a way that makes my skin prickle. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Every instinct in me screams that it’s a lie.
“I should get back to work.” I turn, intending to slip away, to create space. My feet barely move before I feel it—his presence close, too close.
The air shifts, pressing heavy around me.
“Poorvi.” My name on his lips is a violation in itself. Slow, deliberate, intimate in the most unwelcome way.
I flinch, stepping back, but the edge of the desk catches my hip. I hate the tremor in my hands as I clutch the wood, grounding myself.
“Move,” I whisper, but it comes out like a plea instead of a command.
His hand comes down on the desk, caging me in. The scent of him—sharp cologne, something metallic beneath it—assaults my nose. I tilt my head away, bile rising.
“Why so afraid?” he murmurs, his voice low, mocking. “You’re my brother's now, aren’t you? Or should I say—finally an actual princess?”
The words slice deeper than I want them to. My chest constricts, breath stuttering. He knows exactly where to aim.
I push against him, my palms striking his chest, but he barely moves. Panic flares, raw and consuming. I want to scream, to shove harder, but my voice lodges in my throat like a stone.
