Page 72 of The Defiant Wife

"National television."

I stare at him.

"Live."

My stare hardens.

"Palace courtyard."

I consider murder.

The thought of sitting in front of cameras while strangers ask questions about my personal life sounds like a special form of torture.

Doing it with Diya sounds worse. She's already overwhelmed. And she hates the media almost as much as I do.

"She won't agree to it," I say. "And I'm not forcing her."

Something changes in Vihaan's expression.

For a moment he looks less like my annoying younger brother and more like the strategist who somehow manages half the palace's crises."You might not have a choice."

I don't like that answer. Neither does my glare.

"If we don't control the narrative," he continues, "the tabloids will start digging into her father's business and the NGO. The longer this drags on, the messier it gets."

I lean back in my chair. Frustration settles heavily in my chest.

"I'll handle the arrangements," Vihaan says. "But you should prepare yourself."

"I hate that sentence."

"I know." He smirks. "You're going to have to look like a man who's hopelessly in love with his wife."

My expression remains flat.

"Can you manage that, or should I hire an acting coach?"

"Get out of my office, Vihaan."

His grin returns immediately."Good talk."He gives me a mock salute and walks out.

The doors close behind him.Silence returns.But it doesn't feel peaceful anymore.

I stare at the empty chair across from my desk.An interview.Live television.Hours spent sitting beside Diya while cameras analyze every glance, every word, every expression.

A nightmare.

My fingers tap against the desk.

Because the truth is, that isn't the part bothering me.

The part bothering me is the realization that when Vihaan mentioned the interview, the first thing I thought about wasn't the cameras.

It was her.

Those stubborn eyes. That sharp mouth. The way she would eat the anchor if she wishes to, which I hope to God she doesn't.

I drag a hand down my face. This is a problem.