She had been awake when he came through the connecting door. The light under her door had told him, and the particular quality of the silence beyond it. It wasn’t the settled quiet of sleep but the restless stillness of someone lying and thinking loudly. She had sat up when the lamp came on, her expression layered in a way that took him an extra second to read. Shock beneath something he couldn't immediately name.
She had stayed completely still as he moved toward her. Not frozen. Still. There was a difference. Frozen was the absence of decision. Her stillness was a decision in itself.
He had expected resistance, calculation, perhaps even fear.
But her responsiveness had been unguarded. Unlike everything else she had shown him since they had met again. Every interaction before that had been armored. That had been different.
He had withdrawn before completion. He had his reasons. He did not act without them.
When he left, he had told her breakfast was at nine. He had been aware, even as the words came out, that it was not what most men would say in that moment. He had said it anyway because it was accurate and the next relevant fact.
That morning, she had arrived at 9:08.
He had known she would be late. Not from oversight because she had clearly dressed with care and had been awake long before the maids arrived. The lateness was a choice. A small act of resistance, she had permitted herself.
He had let it pass without comment.
She had sat across from him with the specific expression she wore when she was angry and refusing to show it. He had cataloged that expression across multiple encounters now. The slight compression of her lips. The way her chin rose slightly in challenge.
She had argued about the security. She had argued about the black card. She had asked what would happen if she overspent, and he had told her to overspend, and he would add more, because that was the accurate answer.
She had gone quiet after that. It was different from her other silence.
He had left for his meetings. He had not looked back from the door, because looking back served no structural purpose.
Letting out a brief exhale, he turned from the window now and returned to his desk.
The foreign interference required attention. The protests required management. His brothers were coordinating across multiple cities. There was work, and he pressed the intercom.
But before Imran's voice came through, one more fact settled in his mind the way facts did when they were still being processed.
She had said his name. Once. In the dark. Not as a question or a challenge. Just his name, fracturing slightly as she said it.
He had filed it and moved on.
He was still filing it.
“Imran,” he said.
The door opened. Work resumed.
He did not think about it again. Or told himself he didn't.
CHAPTER 15
The helicopter dipped lower, its blades slicing through the thin mountain air as dusk settled over the Jogra valley.
Yamini watched the familiar outline of the palace emerge from the shadows of the snowcapped peaks.
The helicopter touched down smoothly on the private landing pad. The door slid open, letting in a rush of cold mountain air. She stepped out carefully.
“Good night, Your Highness.”
It was the security head.
Despite being much older than her, Jaiveer Tikku didn’t appear tired at all. She had spent most of the day with Pooja, looking at commercial properties to rent for her studio. The security team had followed her everywhere.
Although it was tiring, the hunt for the studio space had felt good. Purposeful. Like something that belonged entirely to her.
