Page 9 of The Defiant Wife

Taking a deep breath, I reach for the door.

Somewhere out there is a prince I already dislike on principle. A prince who's probably here because a public relations team decided charity work would improve his image. A prince who undoubtedly expects everyone to be impressed by his title. Unfortunately for him, titles have never worked particularly well on me.

I flip my hair over one shoulder. Straighten my cardigan and smile. "Okay, Diya," I mutter to myself. "Let's get this over with.”

3. PRINCE UNCLE

VEERAJ

I hate being stared at.Which is ironic considering I've spent my entire life being stared at.

The title does that.The surname does that.The fact that people insist on treating me like some rare species in a zoo certainly doesn't help either.

Usually the attention comes from adults. Businessmen. Investors. Politicians. Reporters. People who want something. People who expect something. People who are exhausting.

Children, however, are an entirely different problem.Because children don't care about protocol.They don't care about titles.And apparently, they don't care that I'm supposed to be the intimidating prince everyone keeps accusing me of being.

I stand beneath the shaded verandah overlooking the courtyard, watching the children run around as though they haven't noticed my existence at all.

A little boy, his eyes sparkling with joy, races across the grass carrying what appears to be a cardboard sword.

A girl almost as serious as me chases after him with alarming determination.

And another girl chases after the first girl with a painted hand.The boy trips.The girl with painted hands cries.The other one starts laughing.Then, somehow, all three of them are laughing.

Chaos.

Pure chaos.

I don't understand how anyone willingly chooses to work around this much noise.The NGO itself isn't what I expected.I don't know what I expected.Something smaller, maybe.Less . . . alive.

Instead the building feels warm.Bright murals cover the walls.Handprints decorate one section.Paintings, drawings, and crooked paper crafts seem to exist on every available surface.

The place feels lived in.

Loved.

I shift my weight, adjusting the cuff of my shirt.This is exactly why I dislike these PR exercises.I'm out of my element.Completely.

I understand boardrooms. I understand business. I understand numbers. I understand negotiations.

Children?

Not even remotely.

A burst of laughter echoes somewhere behind me.Then I hear the sharp click of heels against the tiled floor.The sound grows closer.

Steady.

Confident.

Purposeful.

I turn around and for the first time all morning, I forget what I was thinking.The woman walking toward me is significantly shorter than I am. Maybe a foot shorter. Possibly less. I can't tell because my attention immediately catches on the striking contrast of her skin.

Pale patterns stretch across the left side of her jaw and neck like brushstrokes of moonlight against warm brown skin. More markings disappear beneath the sleeve of her cardigan. A few trace over her fingers.

They're impossible to ignore.Not because they diminish her beauty.Because they enhance it.Make her memorable.Distinct.The kind of face someone sees once and remembers years later.Dark hair falls over one shoulder.Her chin is lifted.Her shoulders are squared.And despite the smile on her face, there's something wary in her eyes.Something assessing.Like she's already decided she doesn't particularly like me.