Page 69 of The Defiant Wife

The problem isn't that Diya was adopted. The problem is that somewhere along the way, her parents forgot they weresupposed to love her. And for reasons I can't quite explain, that realization makes something ugly settle in my chest.

I think about thevidaai. About how every wedding I've attended has followed the same pattern. Mothers crying. Fathers pretending not to. Families struggling to let go. Even when they're happy. Even when they approve. Even when they know their daughter is walking into a good life.

There's always grief. Always. I remember Sitara's wedding, we were all exhausted with everything that happened but it was Dhruv so that was reassuring, still seeing her walk away, I still remember it might be the only day of my adulthood where I cried like a baby.

But in our case . . . Diya's father looked satisfied. Her mother looked distracted.

And Diya . . . I close my eyes briefly. Because I remember the way she hugged the staff. Not her mother. Not her father.

The staff.

I remember the way her composure finally cracked. The tears. The trembling smile. The desperate attempt to be brave. That wasn't the reaction of someone leaving home. That was the reaction of someone leaving the only person who had ever felt remotely nice.

I shift onto my side. Trying to force my thoughts elsewhere. Unsuccessfully.

Because now another problem exists. Marriage. My marriage.

The words still feel absurd.

If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be married by the end of this week, I would've recommended psychological evaluation.

Yet here we are.

A prince who doesn't believe in love. Married.

The irony isn't lost on me.

I had planned on avoiding the love and marriage stage in my life but then Diya happened.

I groan internally. Because even thinking her name creates complications.

She makes no sense. One minute she's threatening me. Next she's defending a child with everything she has. She drives me insane. Questions everything. Challenges everything. Refuses to be intimidated by me.

And somehow she still managed to cry herself to sleep in a room with a man who was so coward that he couldn't even offer her a few words of kindness. All I did was stay in my place and hear her quiet sniffles.

My jaw tightens. I don't like thinking about that. At all. A small movement beside me pulls me from my thoughts. Diya shifts in her sleep, her breathing stuttering for a second before softening back into a quiet rhythm. As she turns toward me, the heavy silk blanket slides slightly, and one hand falls across the mattress, settling in the empty space between us.

My eyes follow the movement automatically. And stop.

The intricate patterns of dark henna still decorate her skin, reaching from her fingertips all the way midway up herforearm. The mehandi artist did exceptional work—the lines are incredibly fine, a rich, deep mahogany against the lighter, pigment-free patches of her vitiligo. The contrast is striking. Traditional motifs of blooming lotus flowers and swirling vines trace the curves of her wrist, wrapping around her skin like a delicate, permanent piece of armor.

I find myself leaning in just a fraction closer, tracing the geometric symmetry of the lines with my eyes. My gaze wanders over the delicate leaves, the tiny dots, and then catches on something hidden near the inside of her wrist.

Intertwined perfectly within the shading of a lotus leaf are letters. Devanagari script, tiny and deliberately obscured.

Veeraj.

A faint smile tugs at my lips before I can even think to stop it. The relatives at the function must have teased her mercilessly while forcing the artist to hide it there, and I can practically picture Diya rolling her eyes, huffing, and snapping at them to leave her alone. Yet, she didn't wash it off. My name is sitting right there against her pulse point.

The smile fades as a sudden, jarring wave of confusion hits me.

What am I doing? I’m hovering over her like a shadow, staring at her hands while she sleeps, getting lost in the details of a woman who, just a few hours ago, called me a royal robot. I don't do this. I don't soften, I don't linger, and I certainly don't get fascinated by a girl who throws helmets at my chest. She’s loud, she’s chaotic, and she’s supposed to be a temporary arrangement to fix a disaster.

But looking at her now, without the defensive walls and the sharp-tongued retorts, she just looks . . . fragile. A stray curl hasescaped her braid, fallen across her cheek, and is moving slightly with every breath she takes.

Before my brain can argue with my hands, I reach out. My fingers hesitate for a beat in the cool air before I gently brush the strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. My knuckles accidentally graze the soft skin of her jaw, and she lets out a tiny, contented sigh, leaning slightly into the warmth of the touch before settling deeper into the pillows.

I pull my hand back instantly, my chest tightening with a strange, heavy ache.