CHAPTER 48
Framed In His Eyes
POORVI
The morning sunlight spills into the corridor like melted gold, dust motes floating in the beam as if even the air has dressed up for today.
My hands are clasped in front of me, fingers tugging at the edge of my dupatta, while Vihaan walks just a step ahead, his stride calm, steady, as though he belongs everywhere he goes. I don’t.
At least, that’s how I feel when we stop before the heavy wooden doors of a chamber I’ve never been inside.
I glance around, half in awe, half in discomfort, at the giant gilded frames hanging across the high ceilinged gallery.
Each one shows someone who looks untouchable, frozen in time with their chin held high, eyes trained on something distant, like they were too grand to ever look at the person standing before them.
I am supposed to sit among them today.
Vihaan glances back at me with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the one that makes me feel like he’s in on a secret and I’m about to be let in too.
“It’s tradition,” he says, pushing the doors open himself instead of waiting for an attendant.
“Every couple in this palace has sat for a portrait. You and I aren’t going to be exceptions. ”
My feet hesitate against the polished marble. A portrait. Of us. My chest feels suddenly too tight for the air to stretch in properly. “Right now?”
He tilts his head, eyes dancing with amusement. “Why? Are you planning on running away before the painter finishes?”
I narrow my eyes at him, though the heat rushing to my face probably ruins the effect. “No.”
“Good.” His smirk deepens, infuriatingly smug, as he holds the door wider for me. “Then come in, meri jaan.”
I step past him, trying to ignore how the word lingers in the air, warm and teasing.
The room itself is drenched in light—tall windows open toward the garden, letting in the scent of jasmine and fresh earth.
Canvases lean against the walls, sketches half-finished, brushstrokes frozen mid-motion.
A long chair sits near the center, covered with embroidered cushions clearly arranged for two people.
And beside it stands the painter, an older man with steady hands and kind eyes, bowing respectfully.
“Kunwar-sa, Kunwarani-sa,” he greets.
I incline my head politely, murmuring something back, though my mind is busy picturing what this man will see, what he will put on canvas. How do you capture something as complicated as this… this marriage that was never meant to be, yet is becoming something I can’t untangle myself from?
Vihaan strides in as though none of those questions exist, as though nothing could possibly unsettle him. He gestures to the seat, then looks at me expectantly. “Shall we?”
I sit down carefully, arranging my dupatta across my lap. The cushions are soft, embroidered with tiny golden threads that catch the light. A second later, the cushion beside me dips with Vihaan’s weight, his shoulder brushing mine. Too close. Not close enough.
The painter clears his throat gently, beginning to prepare his materials. Vihaan leans a little toward me, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “You look nervous.”
I scoff, though my fingers tighten in the fabric pooled in my lap. “I am not nervous.”
“You are.” His lips twitch, eyes glinting as he studies me like he has all the time in the world. “Your nose does this tiny crinkle when you’re trying to lie. It’s doing it now.”
My mouth falls open. “It does not!”
“It does.” He leans back slightly, clearly delighted at my indignation. “I’m tempted to ask the painter to capture that exact expression.”
“Vihaan!” I hiss, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.
He laughs under his breath, the sound low and warm, and for a second the knot in my chest loosens. He does this so easily—takes the edge off my fears without even trying.
“Alright, Kunwar-sa, Kunwarani-sa,” the painter says gently, settling into his chair. “If you are comfortable, I will begin with the sketch. Sit naturally, as you would together.”
Naturally. What does that even mean?
Vihaan seems to know, because he shifts, draping one arm casually along the backrest, his shoulder brushing mine more firmly now. My breath stutters. His hand is so close I can almost feel the heat of it seeping through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
I try to sit straighter, my back rigid. “You’re too close,” I murmur.
“We’re supposed to be,” he counters smoothly, voice teasing. “It’s a couple’s portrait. Unless you’d rather he paints two strangers sitting stiffly like they got trapped on the same bench by accident.”
I glare at him, but the corner of my mouth betrays me, twitching upward. He notices. Of course he notices. His grin spreads, victorious, and my heart stumbles in its rhythm.
The painter begins, his pencil scratching faintly against the canvas. Silence settles, but not the uncomfortable kind—it’s punctuated by the faint rustle of the brush, the occasional chirp from outside, and Vihaan’s maddeningly steady breathing beside me.
My mind, however, is anything but steady.
What will this portrait show? Two people pretending to be what tradition demands? Or two people completely in love with each other? Hopefully the latter.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye, meaning to be subtle. But he catches me instantly, turning his head just enough that our gazes collide.
“Caught you,” he murmurs, smirking.
Heat rushes up my neck. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” He leans in slightly as he pushes my glasses up, his voice a whisper now. “Don’t worry. I like it when you look at me.”
My stomach flips, and I quickly turn back toward the painter, hoping he can’t see the ridiculous flush spreading across my cheeks.
We sit there for what feels like hours, Vihaan occasionally shifting closer, his knee brushing mine, his fingers tapping lightly on the cushion behind me as if to a rhythm only he can hear.
Every tiny touch sends my pulse skittering, and I hate that he knows it. I hate that he enjoys knowing it more.
At one point, the painter asks us to hold still, and Vihaan chooses that exact moment to lean in, his lips hovering near my ear. “Do you know what I see when I look at us?”
I swallow hard. “What?”
“A story.” His breath fans against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. “One that no one expected, not even the two of us. But here we are, and I wouldn’t change a single line of it.”
I squeeze my hands together in my lap, desperately willing my heartbeat to slow down. He says these things so easily, and I… I don’t know what to do with them.
I whisper, “How are you not uncomfortable?”
He chuckles under his breath. “Years of practice. Sitting in council meetings, pretending to listen while old men argue about taxes. I’ve mastered the art of looking regal while thinking about completely different things.”
“What are you thinking about now?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “You.”
My heart beats wildly against the ribs, how is he always so unfazed when he says things that undoes me.
He leans a fraction closer, his voice low and warm. “I’m thinking how no brush, no paint, can ever get you right. They’ll try. They’ll capture your eyes or your smile, but they’ll never catch the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. They’ll never get that right.”
My throat goes dry. “Vihaan,” I whisper, half warning, half plea.
“What?” he asks, innocent as ever, though his smirk says otherwise.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
The painter interrupts gently, “Perhaps a little closer, Kunwar-sa. The composition works better if you turn towards her slightly.”
Vihaan obeys, shifting so that his shoulder brushes mine. I stiffen, heat curling through me like smoke. He, of course, looks entirely at ease, as though being pressed against me was his idea of perfect posture.
“I think he just wants an excuse,” Vihaan murmurs near my ear, “to make me sit closer to you.”
“Stop,” I hiss, but my lips curve helplessly.
“Say please.”
I glance at him, scandalized. “We are in the middle of—”
The painter clears his throat again, misunderstanding my expression. “Ah, yes, hold that look, Kunwarani-sa. Very natural.”
I sigh.
The painter eventually sets down his pencil, satisfied with the sketch. He explains he will begin painting later, and that the sitting is done for today.
I place my hand in his, and as he pulls me up, his thumb brushes deliberately against my wrist. My skin tingles where he touches me.
“See?” he murmurs, smirk still in place. “That wasn’t so bad.”
I bite my lip, trying not to smile too widely. “You were impossible.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, leading me toward the door, “you survived. Perhaps you even enjoyed yourself a little?”
I roll my eyes, but my silence gives me away, and his chuckle follows us into the hallway.
As the painter begins to clean his brushes, Vihaan leans in one last time. “You know what this portrait will show?”
I sigh. “Us, sitting here stiff and uncomfortable.”
He shakes his head. His eyes soften in that way that makes my heart stumble. “It’ll show that you’re mine. That for once in their lives, when people look up at these walls, they’ll see you. Not hidden, not ignored. You.”
Something inside me goes quiet at that, too full to respond.
And as we rise, walking side by side out of that suffocating gallery, I realize maybe I don’t mind being framed in paint—if it means being framed in his eyes first.