EPILOGUE 1
The Uninvited Client
POORVI
It has been a year since I opened the doors of this little place. A year of learning patience, disappointment, joy in tiny victories, and stubbornness in the face of what sometimes feels like failure.
When I told Vihaan I wanted to start a mental health facility—a space where people could walk in, sit down, and talk without worrying about money—he didn’t question me once.
He didn’t ask me about profit or sustainability, didn’t weigh it against the palace duties that still hung on his shoulders.
He just looked at me like I had said something that made perfect sense, like it was the most natural thing for me to want.
“If this is what you want, meri jaan, I’ll help you,” he’d said that night, his hand curled around mine like an anchor. And he has helped. More than I could’ve imagined.
I wanted this because I know what it feels like to choke on silence, to feel invisible even when people are looking right at you.
I wanted this because I had enough money, more than I could spend in two lifetimes if I lived modestly.
Yes, financial independence matters, and Vihaan made sure of mine long before I could stand firmly on it myself.
But money without meaning is useless. I wanted something that gave back, something that might save even one person from feeling the way I once did.
Still, if I’m honest, the place isn’t doing well.
The stigma is thick—it sits in the air like humidity no one wants to acknowledge.
People hesitate. They peek through the glass door, then walk away.
Some come once and never return. Others sit stiff and restless, as if they are doing something shameful by being here.
I can’t change that overnight, but I try. Every day, I try.
The waiting room is empty when I check the clock. My next slot is free, which means another hour alone with my notebook and the fan whirring overhead. I sigh and bend over my notes, reminding myself that even showing up to an empty room is part of the work.
And then the door creaks.
I lift my head. A man walks in, purposeful as always, though I don’t miss the faint twitch of amusement tugging his mouth. I bite back a smile. Of course. He’ll never stop doing this.
Today, he’s wearing glasses that don’t suit him in the slightest, and his hair is parted differently, as if a change in combing direction makes him unrecognizable.
He even has a faint smudge of what I suspect is bronzer on his cheeks.
I want to laugh outright, but I keep my composure, because I know the game. He’s pretending. Again.
He lowers himself onto the couch across from me with the solemn air of a man carrying the weight of the world. His voice drops into a formal tone. “Ma’am,” he begins, fingers steepled dramatically. “I am in too much trouble.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He is very serious, too serious. I fold my hands and tilt my head, a professional mask slipping over my features. “What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
He exhales deeply, as though even saying the words will cost him dearly. “You see, I am absolutely, madly in love with my wife.”
I blink, keeping my face neutral. “That sounds like a wonderful problem to have.”
But he leans forward, dropping his voice to a grave whisper. “No. You don’t understand. She’s too busy for me. Sometimes she even brings her clients’ notes into our bed.” He shakes his head dramatically. “Isn’t that wrong? Shouldn’t there be laws against such cruelty?”
A bubble of laughter rises in my throat, but I swallow it down and put on a sympathetic frown.
“Hmm. Yes, it is wrong,” I murmur, pretending to jot notes on my pad.
“I suppose such a wife is a disgrace. She doesn’t seem to care about you.
Perhaps…” I let my tone go thoughtful, careful. “… you should leave her.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
I can’t stop it this time; I grin at him, wicked.
His eyes narrow, and then he scolds in his real voice, sharp and familiar. “Poorvi.”
I gasp theatrically. “You went from calling me Ma’am to Poorvi in five seconds.”
“Well,” he shoots back, lips twitching, “if you talk about me leaving you, I have to. You broke my character.”
And that’s it. I laugh, my head falling back against the chair, the sound echoing in the quiet little room that has held more tears than laughter in the past year. It feels good. Too good.
When I finally meet his eyes again, he’s smiling too, though softer, his gaze lingering on me like I’m the only thing worth looking at.
My heart stumbles in my chest. How does he do that?
How does he switch from absurd, wig-wearing dramatics to looking at me like I’m the center of his universe in a blink?
He leans forward, closing the small space between us. His hand finds mine, warm and steady, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist like he knows exactly where my pulse is racing. “I think,” he murmurs, “that maybe I just need to steal my wife away from her notes sometimes.”
I swallow hard, lips parting. The air shifts, thick and intimate, and my professional mask slips completely away. It’s just us now. Just him.
His other hand rises, hesitates for a second as if giving me the chance to pull back, and then cups my cheek. “Can I?” he whispers, his forehead lowering toward mine.
I nod before I can think, before logic or the clock or the imaginary boundaries of this office can interfere.
And then his lips are on mine. Warm, familiar, yet always startling.
I sigh into the kiss, my hand finding his collar, clutching the fabric like I’ll fall without it.
He takes off our glasses and, as I am about to comment on how funny he looks in those, the weight of his mouth silences everything except the thundering of my heart.
When we part, breathless and flushed, he smirks faintly. “So, Ma’am. How was my session today?”
I shake my head, trying not to giggle, trying to be stern. “Terrible. You interrupted me, broke character, and kissed your therapist.”
“Hmm.” He leans in again, lips brushing mine with feather-light mischief. “Sounds like five stars to me.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks hurt from smiling. He’ll never stop doing this—showing up in silly disguises, inventing problems that all lead back to us, reminding me in a hundred playful ways that no matter how much weight this work carries, I’ll never carry it alone.
And honestly? I hope he never stops.