Page 85 of The Defiant Wife

My heartbeat stumbles so hard it almost hurts. "You're not meant to be hidden, Diya," he leans in a bit, "I know the world outside can stare and make you want to put up walls, but here, in this light . . . you are purely yourself." He pulls back, our eyes meeting, "and I like that."

For years I've been taught to hide the parts of me that looked different.

And this man . . . This impossible, frustrating, quiet man . . . Looks at the very same skin and doesn't see anything broken.

He sees me. I don't know what to do with that. I don't know what to do with him.

Maybe I've spent so long comparing every powerful man to my father that I forgot they're not all the same.

Maybe Veeraj was never the man I thought he was.

And somehow that realization feels far more dangerous than the one I started this marriage with.

29. BEAUTIFUL CHAOS

VEERAJ

A plastic magenta teacup hitting me square in the chest is not how I imagine spending my Friday afternoon.

The tiny cup bounces off my grey linen shirt, leaving behind a streak of pink watercolor before falling onto the Persian rug.

Across the coffee table, my two-year-old niece lets out the loudest, proudest squeal I've ever heard. "Chai, Cha!"

Aadhya slams her little plastic teapot onto the table like she's running the biggest tea business in the country. I lean back into the sofa and rub a hand over my face, letting out a slow sigh.

This afternoon was supposed to be quiet.

Devraj bhai sa and Meher bhabhi sa are out of town for a charity event, Vihaan is buried in meetings and Poorvi is at her clinic and I was planning to spend the next few hours alone in my study going through development reports.

Instead . . . I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor of the family lounge, holding a pink plastic teacup while a tiny dictator in a glittery fairy tutu forces me to attend her imaginary tea party.

She's somehow wearing one of Vihaan's old silk ties around her shoulders like a cape, and judging by the blue glitter covering half her face, she has also managed to raid Meher bhabhi sa's makeup drawer before leaving.

I've handled difficult board meetings. I've negotiated with politicians. I've dealt with palace crises. Nothing has prepared me for this.

"The café is closed," I tell her seriously, placing the empty teacup on the tray. "The manager is taking a break."

"Not closed!" The familiar voice reaches me before I even look toward the door.

I already know who it is. Diya walks inside wearing a loose cotton kurta, her hair twisted into the messiest bun I've ever seen, somehow held together with what looks suspiciously like a pen. A few loose strands frame her face, and her sleeves are rolled carelessly to her elbows, revealing the pale patches on her wrists.

Her eyes immediately land on the pink paint across my shirt.

Then on the toy teacup in my hand. Then on my expression. A grin spreads across her face. One of those unbearably smug ones.

"Cha!" Aadhya squeals before abandoning me altogether and launching herself toward Diya.

Diya catches her easily. "Hello, my little monster," she laughs, kissing Aadhya's cheek before walking farther into the room.

She looks me up and down. "Oh wow." She bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. "Your Highness looks deeply traumatized."

"I am."

She laughs outright this time. "What happened?"

I deadpan, "The management is unreasonable."

Aadhya nods enthusiastically. "Chai!"