Is she missing her home?
The thought hits hard, followed immediately by guilt. I told her—I promised her—that we could go whenever she wanted. That she didn’t need to ask. That she wasn’t trapped here.
So why does she look like she is?
I exhale slowly, pushing my chair back. I’ll talk to her tonight, I decide. Properly. No distractions. No half-conversations over dinner. I’ll ask her what’s wrong and actually wait for the answer.
The sharp knock on my door shatters the fragile resolve.
Before I can respond, the door flies open.
“Dhruv—”
Yagini bursts in, breathless, her face pale in a way that makes my heart drop instantly.
“Sitara hurt herself,” she blurts out. “She was in the gym and the dumbbell fell on her leg.”
For a second, everything stops.
The room tilts, like the ground beneath my feet has shifted. Air rushes out of my lungs in one sharp exhale, leaving behind nothing but panic.
“What?” The word comes out hoarse.
I’m already on my feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor as I move past her. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. Years of training, of combat readiness, of crisis management—and none of it matters because this isher.
“Which gym?” I demand, already heading for the door.
“The private one near the west wing,” Yagini says, hurrying after me.
I don’t respond. My stride lengthens, boots echoing against marble floors as I move faster than I should. I know, logically, that she’s probably fine. Bruised. Shaken. That injuries happen.
Logic has no place here.
All I can think about is her pain. Her face twisted in hurt. Her trying not to cry.
By the time I reach the gym doors, my pulse is roaring in my ears.
I push them open.
The first thing I see is her.
Sitara sits on one of the benches, her leg extended awkwardly in front of her. Her hands are clenched in her lap, knuckles white. Her lips wobble as she stares at the floor, blinking rapidly like she’s fighting something back.
My chest tightens painfully.
Then she looks up.
Our eyes meet, and her composure cracks just a little. Her eyes widen, glossy with unshed tears, and something inside me breaks cleanly in half.
I cross the distance between us in seconds, dropping to my knees in front of her without a second thought.
“Sitara,” I say, her name barely more than a breath. “Let me see.”
She tries to smile. Tries. “Hi,” she says softly, and the weakness in her voice feels like a knife to my ribs.
“Hey, princess,” I murmur, my voice gentler than I feel. “What happened?”
Her lower lip trembles. “I was… I wasn’t paying attention,” she admits quietly. “I tried to move it and—” She winces.
