Page 55 of The Defiant Wife

A photograph.

I stare out the window of my father's car as buildings blur past us, trying very hard not to lose my patience.Unfortunately, everyone around me seems determined to test it.

"Do you understand how bad this looks?" my father asks from the front seat.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.Barely."No."

His jaw tightens.My mother doesn't even look up from her phone.She hasn't spoken more than three words since we got into the car.Typical.

"Diya."

I sigh."What exactly looks bad, Papa?"

"The photograph."

"It's a photograph."

"With a man."

"A man?" I repeat. "You make him sound like a wild animal."

His expression darkens. I look away.Because honestlyI don't have the energy.Not today.Not when my phone has been exploding since morning.Not when journalists have apparently decided my love life is suddenly everyone's business.Not when people are acting like I secretly trapped a prince into falling in love with me.

A prince.

I almost laugh. Because that's the funniest part. There is absolutely nothing between me and Veeraj Singh Shekhawat.

Nothing.

The man spends ninety percent of his time looking mildly irritated by my existence.

The other ten percent is spent being annoyed because I won't stop irritating him.

That's our relationship.

Annoyance. Mutual and consistent. The end.

I lean my forehead against the cool glass.Let's entertain this ridiculous idea for a moment.Let's say I was dating Veeraj.Hypothetically.Let's say we were secretly in love.Let's say we spent our evenings staring into each other's eyes and discussing our feelings or whatever couples do.

So what?

Why is everyone acting like that's impossible?

Because he's rich?

Because he's a prince?

Because . . . I have vitiligo?

The thought leaves something bitter in my mouth.I hate that this is where people's minds immediately go.Not that he wouldn't like me.Not that I wouldn't like him.No.That someone like him couldn't possibly like someone who looks like me.

My fingers tighten around my phone.

I hate that.I hate it because once upon a time . . . I believed it too.When I was younger, I used to stare at mirrors.For hours.Looking at the pale patches spreading across my skin.

Waiting for them to disappear.Praying they would.As if God had simply made a mistake.As if one morning I'd wake up and everything would be normal again.

Children at school weren't cruel because they understood what vitiligo was.They were cruel because children can smell insecurity from miles away.