CHAPTER 56
Yamini was inside a Jogra steel plant.
Sounds of steel, furnaces, and overhead conveyors ran in steady mechanical rhythms. And underneath it all, there was a low hum of several hundred people doing something they were good at.
Yamini walked the line with her camera, doing a final check on the last of the PR deliverables. She had been to this particular plant several times in recent months.
She smiled and greeted everyone while she kept walking.
She was reviewing the last of the frames on her camera screen when she heard her name.
“Maharani!”
She turned.
It was Meena. Meena was one of the women from the exhibition photographs. Yamini noticed that Meena was walking toward her with something tucked under her arm.
“Maharani, my photo is in this!” Meena held it out with excitement.
It was a magazine. National circulation, thick pages, the kind that sat on coffee tables in corporate lobbies.
Yamini took it with a smile. “Yes. And you look beautiful in it.”
In the photo, Meena was wearing a hard hat with her face glowing from the furnace light.
“My family is thrilled that my photo is in magazines,” said Meena. “Thank you so much, Maharani!”
“You are welcome.”
Meena held the magazine like a precious thing and walked away happily to show it to the others.
Yamini was glad that the steelworkers featured in the exhibition got the coverage, and some of them were even sought by agencies that wanted more pictures of them.
But the most important thing that had happened was that the protests outside the Jogra steel factories had stopped.
Outside the factory gates, the protest barricades were gone. There was no more shouting, or placards or camera crews chasing outrage.
Yamini knew it wasn’t just because of her PR photographs. It was a combination of several things. But the media reported that the PR photographs dramatically changed the narrative.
Her PR photographs filled the news feeds, showing workers laughing beside roaring machinery, women in safety gear raising thumbs, and Bharat captured from an angle where he didn’t appear distant but was listening and present. All of it was captured by her lens.
There were a few negative articles too.
A couple of environmental groups were furious that the protests stopped so efficiently. They claimed image control and manipulation. And the fact that the PR photographer was the Jogra maharani caused an even bigger uproar.
She had thought about that one. It was a fair point. She was his wife. The photographs were never neutral.
But neither were the protests that had proven international funding.
Yamini’s phone rang, pulling her away from her thoughts.
It was Pooja.
She stepped outside to take Pooja's call, standing near the far end of the facility where the noise faded.
“Your husband is trending,” Pooja said, skipping hello entirely.
Yamini recalled the headlines in the media.
“The Human Face of Jogra Steel.”
“The Steel King’s Vision.”
The headlines were accompanied by the photograph she had taken.
It was of Bharat in profile, the furnace glow catching the edge of his jaw, his expression unreadable and somehow completely present.
She choked back a laugh.
“I am not exaggerating,” Pooja said. “All of my clients and the guests over the past month are fawning over your husband. They wouldn’t stop talking about the Jogra maharaja.
The picture you took of him standing near the furnace has gone viral, with 4 lakh likes.
You should read some of the shameless comments made by grown women. ”
Yamini’s lips curved in amusement.
“His golden-brown eyes,” Pooja added. “Broad shoulders. And even his cheekbone is generating significant public interest.”
Yamini laughed.
“It’s not funny,” Pooja scolded. “Now you’ll have to fight off a gazillion female admirers wherever you go! Good thing he has security.”
Yamini imagined Bharat staring down at eager women admiring his eyes and cheekbones.
It made her smile.
“I’m at the steel plant today,” she said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow at the studio.”
“Oho. Workplace romance.”
Yamini’s cheeks heated.
“I’m working,” she said. “My PR project is valid for three more weeks.”
“Good! Stay close and show those women that the Jogra maharaja is yours!”
Yamini laughed. “Bye, Pooja. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She ended the call.
For a moment, she stood smiling.
And then, she began walking.
The factory office was on the upper level, glassed on one side to overlook the floor below.
“Your Highness,” the security greeted her.
Yamini greeted them with a smile.
Before she could even knock, the office door opened, and Imran stepped out.
It had happened more than a couple of times before, until she realized Bharat knew she was coming to his office and dismissed his assistant.
Imran greeted her before leaving.
She pushed the door open.
Bharat was at his desk. The factory floor camera screens spread across one side of the wall, where he must have seen her walking across the factory floor with her camera.
He was in his usual factory clothes, dark jacket, sleeves already folded once at the wrist. The desk was immaculate with files aligned and a tablet placed exactly at the edge.
He looked up.
She didn’t stop at the chairs opposite to him. She walked around the desk to his side and sat directly in his lap.
He went still for exactly one second.
Then his arm came around her waist, automatic and adjusted, the way it always did.
“You are trending,” she said.
Then she pulled up the link Pooja had sent for the social media page with his picture, which had four lakh likes and several thousand comments.
She watched his face as he looked at her phone screen. He studied it the way he studied everything, methodically, without visible reaction.
“I do not monitor social media for frivolous things,” he said at last.
She had expected that exact reply.
A laugh escaped her.
“You have admirers,” she said. “Female ones. Approximately four lakhs, though Pooja said the number is climbing. They are commenting on your golden-brown eyes and your cheekbones.”
He held her gaze.
“Public fascination is irrational.”
She laughed. “Then I’m irrational too. I am fascinated with your golden-brown eyes and cheekbones too. I’m fascinated with all aspects of the Jogra maharaja.”
She leaned closer and brushed her lips lightly against his jaw.
He inhaled slowly.
She now knew that a single long breath meant he was trying to regain control.
But he didn’t regain it. She felt his hardness underneath her.
She smiled.
His hands slid up her back. “You are not supposed to sit on my lap in public spaces,” he murmured the reminder against her temple.
She remembered the command from the last time when she sat on his lap to provoke Tina Mehta.
“I’m claiming my husband,” she said.
That made him still.
Then something flickered in his eyes.
The last few weeks replayed in her mind.
He had told her things he had never told anyone outside his family. Stories of childhood. Of the whispers and labels.
He had spoken in that even tone of his, as if narrating someone else's life and expecting her to recoil.
Instead, she had fallen deeper.
It exasperated her that he had tried to terrify her with the truth of himself.
At night, he was passionate and held her close. But in the mornings, he still looked at her as if he expected her to leave.
It annoyed her. It also made her ache. Most of all, it made her determined.
One day, she would convince him of the one thing he still refused to believe—that she wasn't going anywhere.
“Kiss me,” she commanded softly.
He cupped her cheek.
For a moment, his gaze held hers, searching for something.
Then he bent his head and kissed her.
For now, that was enough.