CHAPTER 7
His Name on My Lips
POORVI
The room feels too quiet.
Too quiet for a day that had thousands of voices, hundreds of flashes, a storm of congratulations that didn’t feel like they were meant for me. And now…it’s just this silence. Thick, suffocating, pressing down on my ears like heavy wool.
I sit at the edge of the bed, my maroon lehenga spilling around me like a pool of blood and gold. The veil still covers my face, and I don’t move to lift it. My knees are hugged close to my chest, my chin resting against them like a child trying to disappear in a corner.
I’m not crying. I’m just…empty. Hollow in a way that almost hurts more than tears.
Because I don’t know what happens now.
No one told me what the first night with your husband is supposed to feel like when you’ve never been given a choice. When you said “yes” because it was logical, because he was kind enough to offer you one, but deep down—you’re not ready.
Not for this.
Not for him.
The door unlocks.
My body jerks before my mind catches up. I don’t look up. I can’t. The air shifts as footsteps enter the room, heavy but not harsh. There’s the sound of the door clicking shut again, the faint rustle of silk and…his cologne.
I swallow hard. My heart’s racing so fast it feels like a warning bell in my chest.
The bed dips slightly beside me.
My fingers clutch the fabric of my lehenga tighter, nails biting into my palms. He’s close now. Too close. What am I supposed to say? How do you deny a man who now has every right over you? Do I tell him I’m not ready? Do I beg? Do I—
The veil lifts.
I flinch as cool air touches my face, and my lashes flick up before I can stop them.
And there he is.
Kunwar Vihaan.
Kunwar-sa. But he doesn’t look like the prince everyone else bows to.
He looks just like a fellow human—with tired eyes that still somehow hold a glint of warmth, his jaw sharp in the dim golden light of the chandeliers, his lips curved into the faintest hint of something that isn’t a smile but isn’t indifference either.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. My throat is dry, but I force words out anyway. Something. Anything. Before this silence swallows me whole.
“I…” My voice cracks, useless and small.
“We can take things slow,” he whispers, and the way his tone softens—like he’s afraid I’ll break—unravels something inside me.
Relief rushes through me. I nod quickly, too quickly, because if I open my mouth now, I might cry.
He clears his throat, scratching the back of his head, looking almost…awkward? That’s new. “I…don’t want to impose on your privacy,” he says, eyes darting away for the first time tonight. “But I feel it’s best we sleep together…so no one gossips.”
The words slam into me before their meaning does. He just said we can take things slow, didn’t he? My eyes widen, panic clawing up my throat. “I…I…I’m not ready yet, Kunwar sa,” I stutter, shame burning hot under my skin.
His brows shoot up, and then realization dawns in his eyes like a struck match. “Oh no,” he blurts, hands raised as if warding off the thought. “I don’t mean sleep—” He gestures wildly toward the bed. “I just meant…we can sleep in the same room. That’s it.”
A sound bursts out of me then—half a laugh, half a sigh, tangled with relief so sharp it’s almost dizzying. I cover my mouth, but it’s too late. The laugh is out there between us.
He chuckles too, shaking his head like he can’t believe this just happened. And for a brief second, the room doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says finally, motioning toward the long velvet one by the window.
I shake my head instinctively. “No, I—”
“Don’t fight it, Poorvi,” he cuts in gently, that teasing curve almost making its way back to his lips.
Then, without warning, his hand lifts. Fingers—warm, sure—tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and I swear the air leaves my lungs. The touch isn’t lingering, not inappropriate, but it’s enough to make every nerve in my body flare awake.
“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” he murmurs, and there’s a smile now. Easy. Carefree. The kind you can’t fake.
I adjust my specs with trembling fingers, desperate for something to do, something to hide how that single touch set me on fire.
“You are a Shekhawat now,” he says suddenly, voice firm, weighty. My head jerks up at the shift in tone. “We take care of each other here.”
I blink at him, words forming and dying in my throat.
“I know things may be hard for you,” he continues, eyes never leaving mine. “You left your home, your family, for me.”
A bitter laugh almost escapes me. Home? Family? I have neither. Never really did. What I had was a roof, nothing more. But I don’t say any of that. It’s not his fault I’ve always been the shadow in someone else’s story.
“I can’t expect you to feel at home suddenly,” he says softly. Then his hand finds mine, slow and deliberate, and squeezes. His palm is warm—so much warmer than mine. “But this is your home now. And you can take your time to realize that.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out. Because what do you say when someone hands you something you’ve craved all your life—belonging—without asking for anything in return?
“Till then,” he adds, that dazzling smile breaking through like sunlight after weeks of rain, “I’ll try to make you realize that.”
The sharp, overwhelming sensation in my chest nearly doubles me over. Why is he being this kind to me? Why does he care enough to sleep in the same room so rumors don’t spread, yet still give me space so I can breathe? Why does he care enough to tell me I belong when no one else ever did?
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat so thick it almost chokes me. “Thank you, Kunwar-sa,” I whisper, because what else can I say?
“It’s Vihaan for you,” he replies, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that I didn’t notice before. “I’m your husband. And if you want me to call you Poorvi, you should call me Vihaan, too. Okay?”
My lips curl before I can stop them, a smile tugging despite the chaos inside me. “Okay…Vihaan,” I breathe, tasting his name for the first time. It feels strange. New. Like something I want to say again, and again, until it’s mine.
“You must be tired?” he asks, his voice gentle again.
I nod, almost pouting without meaning to, and he laughs under his breath.
“Go get changed, and let’s sleep,” he says, then pauses, a frown creasing his forehead. “I mean, you sleep on the bed, and I’ll—”
I smile before he finishes. “I get it, Vihaan,” I interrupt softly.
He stops, stares at me for a beat too long, then smiles back—slow and warm and real. “Okay.”
I stare at him, clueless what’s happening, because I do feel a tug at my heart and I don’t want to stop it.