Page 62 of The Defiant Wife

Who does that? What kind of person does that?

Veeraj Singh Shekhawat apparently.

I groan and drop backwards onto the mattress.The ceiling stares back at me. Helpless.

"What is wrong with you?" I whisper.

Unfortunately, I don't know if I'm talking about him or myself.Probably both.Because no matter how many times I replay that moment, I still can't understand it.

Why? That's the question. Why? Why would he do that? Pity? No.He doesn't seem like the pity type. Responsibility? Maybe. Duty? Possibly.

Protectiveness?

The thought appears before I can stop it.

And annoyingly . . . I remember the look on his face.The one right before he stood up.

Cold.

Sharp.

Dangerous.

Like my father had crossed a line.A shiver runs through me.Because for a second there . . . I genuinely thought Papa looked scared.And that almost never happens.I stare at the ceiling again.Confused.Because if I didn't know better, I would think Veeraj was angry on my behalf. Which is ridiculous.

Obviously.

Why would he be?We've spent most of our interactions irritating each other. I annoy him.He annoys me. That's it.Yet every time I think about him,simplestops existing.

I think about the children instantly loving him despite his terrifying personality.About the way he listened when they spoke.About how he remembered things they told him.About how he never treated them like they were beneath him.

A small knot forms in my chest.Then immediately loosens. Because no.That's not proof of anything.

He was there for PR.The entire reason he came was because his board wanted him to look approachable. Of course he was nice. Of course he was patient. Of course he behaved well. That's literally why he was there.The logic makes sense.Perfect sense.

So why doesn't it feel convincing?

I frown.

Because no matter how many times I tell myself that . . . something refuses to settle.

The memory of him standing up today keeps returning. The way he looked at my father.The way he told him to let go of my wrist.The way he said future wife.My stomach does an unpleasant little flip.

I sit up immediately.

No.

Absolutely not.

We're not thinking about that.

I point a finger at myself. "Get a grip."

Unfortunately, my body and mind refuse to cooperate.Because another thought follows. One that's somehow worse.

What if he regrets it?

The room grows colder.