Page 66 of The Defiant Wife

"I've been informed."

"Repeatedly."

I nod solemnly. "A tragic burden."

The twitch becomes an actual smile. Small. Reluctant. Barely there. But real.

For the first time since yesterday. For the first time since she walked into that meeting looking completely defeated. She smiles.

And God help me.

It hits me harder than it should. Straight to the chest. Like someone physically reached inside and squeezed something.

The satisfaction arrives unexpectedly. A ridiculous amount of relief for something as simple as a smile.

I stare at her for a second too long. Long enough that she notices. Long enough that she immediately looks away. The smile lingering. Still there. Still real.

The priest announces the next ritual. The moment ends. Family members shift forward. The ceremony resumes. Yet I find myself oddly content.

Because for the first time since this disaster began, she doesn't look trapped. She doesn't look defeated. She doesn't look alone.

And as I watch the faint curve remaining on her lips, one dangerous realization settles quietly into my mind.

Making Diya smile might become a very bad habit.

Especially when she still thinks I'm a giant oaf.

A giant oaf she just married.

19. MY HUSBAND

DIYA

I have a husband. The thought follows me all the way from the wedding venue to the palace, not in a dramatic, butterflies-and-violins sort of way, but more in a bewildered, what-on-earth-just-happened-to-my-life fashion. Just one week ago, my biggest concerns were whether Raj's hearing appointment would get pushed back again and if Keshav had finally stopped hiding crayons inside the library books at the NGO. Now? I’m married to a prince. A grumpy, infuriating prince who somehow went from being the bane of my existence to being legally attached to me for the foreseeable future. Life is strange. Very, very strange.

The royal wing is quieter at night than I expected, the vast halls softly lit while the staff move around like ghosts. The entire palace seems to breathe with a heavy, ancient gravity after sunset, making everything feel larger, softer, and almost lonely. For a moment, a wave of homesickness catches me off guard; I genuinely miss the noisy NGO dormitories, the sound of children arguing over blankets, Lucky sneaking into someone else's bed because he was scared of thunderstorms, and Rani threatening violence over board games. It's a jarring realization because, for the first time in my life, I don't know where I belong. My parents' house never felt like home, the NGO became mysanctuary, and now I’ve somehow ended up in a literal palace with a man I can barely read.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind us, and I immediately freeze. Good lord, the room is enormous—the sleeping quarters alone are bigger than the entire floor of my parents' house. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the darkened palace gardens, a plush seating area occupies one corner across from a carved marble fireplace, and the bed . . . the bed is criminally large. I stare at it, entirely convinced you could host a small corporate conference on that mattress without anyone bumping elbows.

Veeraj doesn't seem remotely bothered by the sheer scale of the room. He’s already hung up his heavy wedding sherwani in the dressing alcove, returning in a simple black t-shirt and track pants. He folds his discarded silk pocket square with the kind of intense focus people usually reserve for heart surgery. His expression remains completely neutral, calm, and collected—honestly, it’s offensive.

My life has completely derailed in less than forty-eight hours, and this man is arranging his cufflinks on the dresser like he's preparing next week's budget report. Does he even possess a single human emotion, or is he powered entirely by batteries and royal obligation? I refuse to believe any human being can remain this unshakeable. Narrowing my eyes, a spark of stubborn determination flares to life inside me. This is a challenge. Unlike everyone else, I now have unlimited, twenty-four-hour access to his personal space. If anyone can crack the stoic mystery of Veeraj Singh Shekhawat, it's me.

Operation: Make The Prince Reactofficially re-begins tonight.

I toss my heavy bridal jewelry onto the dresser, turning around just in time to see him carrying a pillow toward the sitting area. I blink in disbelief. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

Without looking up, he adjusts the pillow beneath his arm. "Taking the couch."

I glance at the elegant, ridiculously expensive sofa, then back to him. "Don't be ridiculous. Look at the size of that bed; it's practically a football field. We are adults, Veeraj. I think we can manage to share a mattress without a border dispute."

That finally earns a reaction—a tiny pause as he gives me the sort of look one reserves for a mildly concerning individual. "I'm trying to be a gentleman, Diya."

The quiet sincerity catches me off guard, just enough that I have to double down to hide it. "Well, don't strain yourself. It doesn't suit your face. Just sleep over there, stay on your latitude, and don't breathe too loudly. I value my sleep."

The corner of his mouth twitches, a microscopic shift that feels like a massive victory. "Fine," he says, his voice infuriatingly steady. "Try not to kick in your sleep, Trouble."

I gasp, my hands dropping to my hips. "You made a joke."