Page 67 of The Defiant Wife

"I didn't."

"You absolutely did."

He walks past me toward the bed, his shoulders rigid. "I regret speaking."

I grin, entirely pleased with myself. This is going beautifully, far better than expected.

Several minutes later, we're both lying beneath separate blankets on opposite sides of the gigantic bed, an absurd mountain of decorative velvet pillows forming an unofficial border between us. The room is dark except for the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains, bringing a heavy silence that makes every single one of my thoughts louder. I stare at the ceiling, acutely aware of the silhouette occupying the other side of the mattress.My husband. My stomach does a weird, anxious flip. Marriage always felt like something that happened to other people, yet there's a man sleeping ten feet away who legally claims the title.

The silence stretches until I can't take it anymore. "Hey."

No response. I smirk into the dark. "Royal Robot." I sing-song.

A heavy, exhausted sigh emerges from the shadows. Success. "I was trying to sleep, Diya."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Do you ever just yell? Like, privately? Do you have a soundproof room somewhere, or do you just scream into pillows? Maybe that's why you're so emotionally constipated."

"Only when you're talking," he murmurs.

I immediately sit upright, clutching my chest dramatically. "Oh my God, that was an insult! An actual, organic insult. Look at you, exhibiting signs of sentient life."

A dangerous sort of quiet settles over the room, the kind that usually warns sensible people to retreat. Unfortunately for Veeraj, I have never been sensible. His voice cuts through the dimness, a low, warning rumble. "Go to sleep, Diya. Before I remember I have the royal authority to banish you to the hallway."

I grin wider, leaning back against my headboard. "You wouldn't dare. It would ruin your perfect gentleman reputation."

Silence follows, long and heavy. I settle back against my pillow, thoroughly convinced I've gotten the last word. Operation: Make The Prince React is already succeeding.

Then, the mattress dips. My smile vanishes instantly. The bed doesn't just shift; his weight moves closer, sending my pulse tripping over itself. The border of pillows remains technically intact, but suddenly he is right there, close enough that I can make out the sharp outline of his jaw in the moonlight. The woodsy, warm scent of his cologne reaches me—the exact same scent from the motorcycle ride—and my lungs completely forget how to function.

Veeraj leans forward slightly, his dark eyes catching the pale light, erasing every coherent thought from my brain.

"I don't care about my reputation, Diya," he says, his voice dropping into a low, velvet purr that feels far too smooth for a man who barely speaks. He tilts his head, his nose almost brushing the edge of the pillow line. "And if I remember correctly . . . you didn't seem particularly burdened by my lack of gentlemanly manners when I had you pinned against your front porch through a helmet."

My breath catches loudly, a horrible, mortifying squeak in the quiet room.

The ensuing silence is devastating because he definitely heard it. I can actually hear the tiny note of smug satisfaction in his breath as he settles back onto his pillow, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that he just executed a textbook piece of emotional warfare.

"Your heart is doing that cardio thing again," he drifts out lazily. "Go to sleep."

I stare blindly at the ceiling, pulling the blanket all the way over my face to hide my burning cheeks. What exactly am I supposed to do with that? The plan was simple: annoy him, tease him, provoke a reaction, and win. Instead, I’ve discovered that beneath all that royal composure lurks a man fully capable of choosing absolute psychological violence when pushed.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will recover, regroup, and resume the mission. Next time, I'm winning. Probably. Hopefully.

A soft, low chuckle echoes from the other side of the bed. My eyes widen under the covers. The traitor is still awake.

"Good night, Diya."

I glare through the fabric at the darkness. "Good night, Your Royal Pain in the Ass."

The chuckle comes again, quieter this time, melting into the quiet rhythm of the room. And somewhere between my embarrassment and my racing pulse, exhaustion finally pulls me under. For the first time in years, I fall asleep in a space that doesn't feel lonely—though I won't admit that to myself until the morning.

20. WRITTEN IN HENNA

VEERAJ

I don't fall asleep immediately like I usually do. Years of twelve-hour workdays, board meetings, site visits, financial reviews, and people constantly needing something from me have trained my body to shut down the second my head touches a pillow.

Tonight, however, sleep stays stubbornly out of reach.