Dhruv, the traitor that he is, scoops her up effortlessly instead. “It’s fine. I’ve been warned about this job.”
Aadhya settles against his shoulder immediately, one tiny hand gripping his collar like she owns him.
Something in my chest shifts. I might be in love with this sight, at how Aadhya is grinning at Dhruv, and he beams back. He will make such a good father, the thought itself makes me emotional somehow.
Devraj bhai-sa steps closer then, his presence quiet but solid, eyes flicking between me and Dhruv with that familiar protective sharpness softened by relief.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod, throat suddenly tight. “Yeah, Bhai-sa.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer, then nods once. Approval. Acceptance. Maybe even gratitude.
Vihaan bhai-sa smiles at me from beside him, squeezing my arm gently. “You look settled.”
I don’t argue. Because I am. As we walk toward the inner hall together, Aadhya still perched comfortably on Dhruv’s hip, she suddenly leans back to look at me upside-down.
“Bui,” she announces seriously, “Dhruv fufa-sa smells nice.”
I almost choke. I know, girl, but don’t say that outloud.
Bhabhi-sa raises an eyebrow. Dhruv smirks shamelessly, and Devraj bhai-sa clears his throat.
“Thank you?” Dhruv says, pulling her cheeks.
Aadhya nods. “Like chocolate. But grown-up.”
I cover my mouth, laughing despite myself. Dhruv glances at me then, eyes warm and amused, like he’s sharing a private joke only we’re in on.
And maybe that’s when it hits me. Standing here—in this palace, surrounded by my family, watching my husband let a three-year-old rule his entire existence without complaint—I don’t feel like I’m performing a role.
I don’t feel like I’m pretending.
I feel… included.
Wanted.
Home doesn’t always announce itself loudly.
Sometimes it looks like your niece clinging to your husband. Sometimes it sounds like shared laughter echoing through old halls. Sometimes it’s just the quiet certainty that you don’t have to brace yourself anymore.
Diamonds and kisses
DHRUV
She’s ready. I notice the second I look up from adjusting my cufflinks. There’s a shift in the room. A subtle one, like the air itself pauses. Sitara stands near the mirror, her back to me.
The gown fits her better than she thinks it does. It always does. She has a way of filling space that makes fabric look like it was waiting for her, not the other way around. The color is soft, not loud, but the green catches light when she moves, and right now she’s standing very still, fingers nervously twisting together at her waist.
I don’t say anything. I just watch because I am too speechless to say anything at all.
She lifts her chin slightly, studying herself with an expression that’s halfway between doubt and determination. There’s a small crease between her brows that appears when she’s thinking too hard, and I have the irrational urge to smooth it away with my thumb.
“You’re staring,” she says, looking at me through the mirror.
I smile despite myself. “I’m allowed to. You’re my wife.”
She huffs. “That’s not a license.”
