I should be used to this by now—these gatherings of the rich, powerful, and endlessly smiling—but the truth is, I will never feel like I belong. The way people glide across the floor in glittering sarees and tailored tuxedos, the way laughter floats like champagne bubbles, empty and rehearsed… it all feels like another world. A world I was born into but never welcomed in.
But tonight, I am here not as Poorvi Sisodiya. Tonight, I am Vihaan’s wife.
That fact alone keeps my spine a little straighter, my chin lifted just enough.
“Stop frowning,” Vihaan murmurs beside me, his lips barely moving, his deep voice for my ears only.
“I’m not frowning.”
“You are,” he says, amusement curling in his tone. “It’s this tiny crease right here.” He lifts his hand slightly as if to smooth it, but instead lets his knuckles brush against mine, feather-light, a touch no one else would notice.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Maybe you’re imagining things, Kunwar-sa.”
He tilts his head, his dark eyes cutting toward me. “I don’t imagine when it comes to you, meri jaan. I only notice.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Trust him to flirt in the middle of a gala while people practically bow at his feet.
“You should focus on your conversations,” I whisper, trying to sound scolding.
“And miss the chance to watch you blush?” His smirk is quick, but devastating. “Never.”
Before I can reply, someone approaches him, bowing slightly, launching into a discussion about trade routes. Just like that, his attention shifts, his tone smooth and commanding. Yet, his hand never leaves the curve of my back, his thumb moving in lazy, soothing strokes that no one else sees.
It’s ridiculous, but those tiny gestures make me feel braver.
I last longer than I thought—smiling politely, sipping water, watching Vihaan move through the crowd like he was born to command it. But eventually, the air feels too thick, my head too heavy. I murmur that I’ll be back, and he only nods, eyes lingering on me as if to say,don’t be long.
The washroom is quieter, almost eerily so after the noise of the hall. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, resting my palms against the cool marble counter. For a moment, I just close my eyes and let the silence wrap around me.
The door creaks open.
I don’t look right away. I should have.
“Poorvi.”
The voice makes my stomach clench. Smooth, honeyed, but sharp at the edges. My stepmother.
I open my eyes slowly and meet her gaze in the mirror. She’s radiant, as always, draped in deep red silk, diamonds glittering at her throat, lips painted to perfection. She looks like she owns the room just by stepping into it.
Old instinct makes my shoulders tense. I turn anyway, facing her fully, though my hands curl slightly against my sides.
She steps closer, the sharp click of her heels echoing on the marble. “I was wondering when I’d get a chance to speak to you.”
I stay silent. I don’t trust my voice not to betray me.
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Before I can step back, her hand shoots out, gripping my arm. Hard. “You did not reply to my letter.”
“I didn’t see any need for that,” I reply. The pressure is sharp, her nails biting through the thin fabric of my sleeve. I flinch but stay rooted, staring at her.
“You’re clever,” she whispers, leaning close, her perfume cloying and suffocating. “Marrying Vihaan Shekawat. Do you realize what this could mean for all of us? For your family?”
Her family. Not mine.
“You need to convince him,” she presses, her grip tightening, her voice a low hiss. “If the Shekawats support us, it will be good for both houses. Think of your siblings. Think of the future. This is bigger than you.”
Her breath brushes hot against my ear. I can’t move. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might break through my ribs. The marble wall is cool against my back, but my skin burns under her hand. I feel small again—helpless, cornered, like the little girl she used to silence with just a look.
My throat closes. The old fear surges, pulling me under, whispering that I should nod, obey, do what she says so she’ll let go.
