Page 21 of Scars and Crowns

Jealousy.

Resentment.

Bitterness.

After all . . . This little girl belongs to a life Anamika built without me. A life I know absolutely nothing about. Instead . . . None of those emotions come.

Not one.

All I feel is something unexpectedly gentle. A tenderness I haven't earned.

She's just a child. Completely innocent of whatever happened before she existed. And somehow . . . It's impossible to look at her without seeing pieces of Anamika scattered everywhere.

The way she laughs with her whole body. The way she argues as though she's already won. The way every emotion arrives honestly, without calculation.

It's . . . familiar. Painfully familiar.

A warmth settles quietly beneath my ribs before I even realize it's there. Before I can examine that feeling any further, movement inside the room pulls me back.

Anamika bends to pick up two empty water bottles from beside the bed. "Stay here," she says, pointing a finger at Sara. "No jumping while I'm gone."

"I'll try."

"'Try?"

"I'll . . mostly try."

Anamika gives her a look. Sara immediately presses both palms against the mattress. "I'm sitting."

"Good." She walks toward the doorway.

My heartbeat stumbles.

Idiot.

Move.

Now.

I step back instinctively and slip into the recessed doorway of an unused storeroom just across the corridor. The space is barely deep enough to hide an adult man. I'm standing in my own palace . . . Hiding from a woman I've known since childhood. If anyone from the council saw me right now, I'd never recover.

I almost laugh at myself.

This is absurd.

I've negotiated land disputes worth crores without breaking eye contact. I've addressed thousands of people from palace balconies without a single note in front of me. I've faced journalists determined to corner me. And yet one glimpse of Anamika walking toward me has reduced me to hiding behind an abandoned storeroom door like a schoolboy caught stealing mangoes from the royal orchard.

Some things, apparently time doesn't fix.

Her footsteps grow closer.

Slow.

Unhurried.

Close enough that I can hear the soft rustle of her cotton uniform brushing against itself. Close enough that I catch the faint fragrance of soap and freshly washed clothes as she passes. "I'll be back in two minutes," she calls over her shoulder. "Don't leave the room."

"I won't!"