Page 182 of Claimed By the Maharaja
Something flickered in his golden-brown eyes.
“Then don’t forget,” he said, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Just accept our marriage.”
As if it were that simple.
She felt his hand on her face. The same hand that had sent photographs to end her marriage. The same hand that had held her steady through a factory fire. And the same hand that had stayed at her waist during the announcement when she was nervous.
Her head turned before she fully decided to, pushing her cheek against his palm.
“You are infuriating,” she said.
Something shifted briefly at the corner of his mouth. It vanished before she was certain she had seen it.
Not a smile, but close.
“I know,” he said.
She inhaled deeply.
“If you control my life again, I’ll leave,” she said.
He didn’t say anything. His thumb stilled, and then his mouth covered hers in a kiss.
She still wasn’t sure she should forgive him.
But she knew she could no longer stay away from him.
The troubling part was that a part of her felt right at home in his arms.
CHAPTER 43
Spring arrived in the Jogra Valley.
The royal apple estate had burst into white and blush bloom, rows of trees stretching down the valley in every direction. Snow still capped the peaks above, but here the air was warm enough to carry laughter and the smell of fresh blossoms.
Yamini stood on a low wooden platform between the orchard rows, mic in hand, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. The charity event felt less like a royal function and more like a community festival. Steel factory families filled the meadow. Children ran between the trees. Food counters lined one side of the open ground with baskets of winter fruit, steaming breads, and delicious meat and vegetable dishes. Hot pink-hued noon chai was served at a corner.
This had been her idea to hold an event under the open sky after months of snowfall.
She had mentioned it once as a suggestion at breakfast. Three days later, Imran had called to confirm the venue.
She had stopped being surprised by things like that.
She wore a traditional orange Jogra pheran for the event. But she had taken her shoes off halfway through and was now barefoot in the grass, holding her camera.
A small boy with rosy cheeks pulled her hand and offered her a shiny, red apple.
She took a generous bite and smiled. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
The small boy beamed and took off in the grass to join his parents.
She laughed.
Across the orchard, Bharat Jogra stood with the senior plant managers. He wore black traditional Jogra attire, sunglassesin place. Even in spring sunlight, he carried that particular command that made people around him stand a little straighter without being told.
She sensed his gaze behind the sunglasses.
She knew he was watching her because his body was still in a familiar, focused manner.
