“Sir, the Jaipur delegation will need—”
“Push it to tomorrow,” I say without slowing down.
Mayur, my assistant, blinks. “But—”
“I said tomorrow,” I repeat, tone flat.
He nods immediately and falls into step beside me. “Anything else?”
I exhale, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “For the next hour, I don’t exist. No calls. No interruptions.”
He hesitates. “Sir—”
“Unless the palace is on fire,” I add.
That does it. He gives a short bow and veers off, already pulling out his phone to redirect whatever chaos usually follows me like a shadow.
I don’t have a destination in mind at first. My feet carry me on instinct through corridors I’ve walked a thousand times. And then—through the open archway—I see her.
Sitara stands in the library, framed by towering shelves that make her look smaller than she already is. She’s on her toes, arm stretched upward, fingers grazing the spine of a book just out of reach.
She huffs under her breath. I stop. Something loosens in my chest. She tries again, standing higher on her toes, muttering something I can’t hear. The determination on her face is almost comical, and for a moment, I just watch. I don’t announce myself. I don’t interrupt.
Because this—this unguarded version of her, alone with her thoughts and a stubborn book—is something I don’t get to see often.
A soft smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. I step forward. Quietly.
“You know,” I say mildly, “that shelf hasn’t moved in years.”
She startles, spins around too fast, and nearly loses her balance.
“Dhruv!” she snaps, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you enjoy giving people heart attacks?”
“Only selectively.”
Her eyes narrow. “I was managing.”
I glance at the shelf, then at her. “Were you?”
She turns back stubbornly and reaches again, as if to prove a point. Her fingers fall short. I hum thoughtfully.
“Do not,” she warns without looking at me, “say anything about my height.”
I take another step closer. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Was I?”
She turns, scowling now. “You guys think just because you’re tall—”
“—that the world is designed for us?” I finish calmly. “Yes. Unfortunately, it often is.”
She crosses her arms, clearly flustered, cheeks faintly pink. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet, here I am,” I say, reaching up and pulling the book off the shelf with ease, “helping you.”
Her eyes flick to the book. Then to my face. “Give it,” she says. I hold it just out of her reach.
