I remind myself of what Dhruv made me do this morning.
Three good things.
My eyes look pretty in sunlight.
My cheeks are naturally rosy.
I like my nose.
It doesn’t erase the sting. But it steadies me, and somehow that’s helpful. For now.
The warmest place
DHRUV
She’s been invisible all day.
Not in the way people usually mean it—no, worse. Sitara is the kind of presence youfeel. Even when she’s quiet, she exists loudly in my awareness. The soft scratch of her pencil somewhere in the library. The way she curls into the window seat with a book, knees tucked under her, hair falling into her eyes. I take the longer route to meetings on purpose, pretending it’s efficient when it’s really just an excuse to pass by wherever she might be.
I tell myself it’s normal.
I tell myself it’s not strange to want to see your wife.
But today—nothing.
The library is empty. The sunroom is quiet. Her usual corner by the balcony abandoned, the cushion still fluffed like it’s waiting for her. It unsettles me more than it should. Sitara doesn’t disappear like this. Even on slow days, she drifts through the palace like a soft hum in the background.
I stop one of the aides, ask casually if they’ve seen her.
No.
I ask another.
A shake of the head.
By the time I reach the corridor near our room, something tight has already settled in my chest. I don’t like not knowing where she is. Not because I need to control anything—God, no—but because she doesn’t withdraw unless something is wrong.
I find Maya near the staircase.
“She’s sleeping,” she says quickly, eyes flicking away.
Sleeping.
That alone is enough to make me frown. Sitara doesn’t sleep through the morning unless she’s exhausted or unwell. Even then, she’ll usually tell me. Leave a note. Send a message. Something.
I don’t respond to Maya. I just turn and walk.
Our room feels too quiet when I open the door.
The curtains are drawn halfway, letting in a muted wash of light. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus and something medicinal. And there—on the bed—is Sitara.
Curled in on herself.
Her face is twisted, not dramatically, not loudly, but in that small, contained way people do when they’re trying very hard not to complain. Dried tear tracks mark her cheeks. Her lips are pressed together like she’s biting back pain.
Panic hits me fast and sharp.
“Sitara,” I say, already moving.
