She took the seat opposite him and lifted her cup, the noon chai pink-hued and salty, the taste she'd once hated and now reached for without thinking.
“You should reconsider the position abroad,” he said.
“I have.”
He waited.
“I'm staying.”
He looked up then.
“The contract dissolution ensures you receive the settlement earlier,” he said. “You should take it.”
A flicker of anger rose in her. He knew she wasn’t with him for his money. And yet, he said it to deliberately make her angry. To get her to leave.
He was trying to protect her from himself.
But she didn’t think she needed protection from him.
“You know I don't want your money. I want to be with you.”
Silence.
Then he got up and left, the security trailing behind him, the way they always did.
She poured herself a second cup of noon chai and watched the door close behind him.
He would be back, and she would be waiting.
For the next seven days, that became the rhythm.
She joined him for breakfast each morning. During the day, she worked in the palace studio on the final PR photos, with Sheru curled nearby for company.
More than once, she thought about going back to his studio alone, to look at the paintings again. Each time, she decided against it. She wanted him to take her there himself when he was ready.
In the evenings, she waited for him to come home from work.
He came home early, but said little.
But he remained in the same room as her in the evenings, with his tablet and his files and his particular silence.
She didn't press him to talk.
Each night she went to his room. Each night he stood there for a moment first, as if giving her one last chance to change her mind. And each night, when she didn't, his control broke, and she fell asleep in his arms.
???
On the seventh evening, rain pressed against the tall windows of the bedroom.
The valley below Jogra Palace shimmered in silver mist.
Yamini stood with her arms folded loosely across her chest. They had just finished a small, intimate dinner in the bedroom suite. The air smelled of stone and distant pine.
Bharat stood beside the window, his fingers resting lightly on the carved edge.
“When I was seven,” he began, his voice even, “a palace staff member dropped a brass tray behind me. I bit through my tongue.”
Yamini froze.
