Page 56 of The Defiant Wife

They pointed. They whispered. They stared. And every stare felt like confirmation.

Different.

Different.

Different.

My mother didn't help.Neither did my father.I still remember being fourteen and overhearing my mother talking to one of her friends.

Such a pretty girl, it's unfortunate about the skin.

Unfortunate.Like I was a damaged painting.Like somebody had spilled something on me.Like I was almost worth looking at.

The memory still hurts. Not as much as it used to.But enough. I close my eyes briefly.Then open them again.Because dwelling on old wounds never helped anyone.

The funny thing is . . . the people who healed those insecurities weren't adults. Adults rarely heal anything.They usually create the damage.Children fixed what they never broke.I smile despite myself.

The first time Raj touched my face, he'd been seven.He traced one of the white patches on my jaw before signing, 'Pretty.'

Just like that. No hesitation. No pity. No awkwardness. Pretty.

The first time Laila saw the patches on my hands she asked if I was secretly magical.Keshav once informed an entire room that my skin looked like somebody painted moonlight on me.Lucky spent two weeks telling everyone I had superhero markings.Rani had simply looked at me and said, 'Good. Now nobody can copy you.'

That was it. Children loving me exactly as I was.Without conditions.Without questions.Without hesitation.Maybe that's why I love them so much.

Because they see me.Adults see flaws.

The car slows.I glance outside and my stomach immediately drops.The Shekhawat Palace rises ahead of us.

Beautiful.

Massive.

Intimidating.

Exactly the sort of place that makes people feel small.I hate places like this.My heart begins beating faster.Not because of the palace.Definitely not because of the palace.

And absolutely not because somewhere inside that palace is a six-foot-something prince who has somehow managed to become the most frustrating person I've ever met.

I don't want to see him. I really don't. Not after that photograph. Not after the whispers. Not after spending all morning trying not to think about how close we'd been standing that night.Or how warm his hand felt on the helmet.Or how his voice sounded when he leaned in.

Or—No. We're not doing that. Absolutely not.

I straighten in my seat.The palace gates grow larger.My pulse gets louder. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

I don't even like him.

He's grumpy.Judgmental.Bossy.He speaks like every word costs money.And somehow manages to make me want to argue with him every single time he opens his mouth.

The car comes to a stop.My father turns around.For the first time during the drive, his full attention lands on me. I immediately know I'm not going to like whatever comes next.

"Listen carefully." His eyes sharp,"You will behave yourself inside."

"I always behave myself." I mutter.

"Don't embarrass us." He snaps, his voice booming in the car, enough to make me flinch. I nod wordlessly. "Let me deal with it, don't you dare utter a word." I nod again.

Don't embarrass us.