I am supposed to sit among them today.
Vihaan glances back at me with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the one that makes me feel like he’s in on a secret and I’m about to be let in too. “It’s tradition,” he says, pushing the doors open himself instead of waiting for an attendant. “Everycouple in this palace has sat for a portrait. You and I aren’t going to be exceptions.”
My feet hesitate against the polished marble. A portrait. Of us. My chest feels suddenly too tight for the air to stretch in properly. “Right now?”
He tilts his head, eyes dancing with amusement. “Why? Are you planning on running away before the painter finishes?”
I narrow my eyes at him, though the heat rushing to my face probably ruins the effect. “No.”
“Good.” His smirk deepens, infuriatingly smug, as he holds the door wider for me. “Then come in, meri jaan.”
I step past him, trying to ignore how the word lingers in the air, warm and teasing.
The room itself is drenched in light—tall windows open toward the garden, letting in the scent of jasmine and fresh earth. Canvases lean against the walls, sketches half-finished, brushstrokes frozen mid-motion. A long chair sits near the center, covered with embroidered cushions clearly arranged for two people. And beside it stands the painter, an older man with steady hands and kind eyes, bowing respectfully.
“Kunwar-sa, Kunwarani-sa,” he greets.
I incline my head politely, murmuring something back, though my mind is busy picturing what this man will see, what he will put on canvas. How do you capture something as complicated as this… this marriage that was never meant to be, yet is becoming something I can’t untangle myself from?
Vihaan strides in as though none of those questions exist, as though nothing could possibly unsettle him. He gestures to the seat, then looks at me expectantly. “Shall we?”
I sit down carefully, arranging my dupatta across my lap. The cushions are soft, embroidered with tiny golden threads that catch the light. A second later, the cushion beside me dips with Vihaan’s weight, his shoulder brushing mine. Too close. Not close enough.
The painter clears his throat gently, beginning to prepare his materials. Vihaan leans a little toward me, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “You look nervous.”
I scoff, though my fingers tighten in the fabric pooled in my lap. “I am not nervous.”
“You are.” His lips twitch, eyes glinting as he studies me like he has all the time in the world. “Your nose does this tiny crinkle when you’re trying to lie. It’s doing it now.”
My mouth falls open. “It does not!”
“It does.” He leans back slightly, clearly delighted at my indignation. “I’m tempted to ask the painter to capture that exact expression.”
“Vihaan!” I hiss, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.
He laughs under his breath, the sound low and warm, and for a second the knot in my chest loosens. He does this so easily—takes the edge off my fears without even trying.
“Alright, Kunwar-sa, Kunwarani-sa,” the painter says gently, settling into his chair. “If you are comfortable, I will begin with the sketch. Sit naturally, as you would together.”
Naturally. What does that even mean?
Vihaan seems to know, because he shifts, draping one arm casually along the backrest, his shoulder brushing mine more firmly now. My breath stutters. His hand is so close I can almost feel the heat of it seeping through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
I try to sit straighter, my back rigid. “You’re too close,” I murmur.
“We’re supposed to be,” he counters smoothly, voice teasing. “It’s a couple’s portrait. Unless you’d rather he paints two strangers sitting stiffly like they got trapped on the same bench by accident.”
I glare at him, but the corner of my mouth betrays me, twitching upward. He notices. Of course he notices. His grin spreads, victorious, and my heart stumbles in its rhythm.
The painter begins, his pencil scratching faintly against the canvas. Silence settles, but not the uncomfortable kind—it’s punctuated by the faint rustle of the brush, the occasional chirp from outside, and Vihaan’s maddeningly steady breathing beside me.
My mind, however, is anything but steady.
What will this portrait show? Two people pretending to be what tradition demands? Or two people completely in love with each other? Hopefully the latter.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye, meaning to be subtle. But he catches me instantly, turning his head just enough that our gazes collide.
“Caught you,” he murmurs, smirking.
