CHAPTER 33
The glimpse that burns
VIHAAN
The meeting ends earlier than I expect. A rare mercy. I straighten my files, exchange the usual polite farewells, but my mind isn’t on the room anymore. It’s already gone ahead—towards her.
It’s lunch. For once, I am free on time. No councilmen pulling me aside, no endless speeches to draft, no urgent PR matters I have to take care of. Just time.
And instinctively, I want to spend it with her.
Poorvi.
The name almost vibrates inside my chest in a way that surprises me every time. It still feels new, fragile, like something I’m not allowed to say too loudly. But it pulls me all the same.
I make my way down the corridor, the palace sunlight filtering in through tall windows, catching on the marble floor. My steps are quicker than they should be, anticipation buzzing low and warm in my stomach.
When I reach our chambers, I push the door open lightly—already rehearsing how casually I’ll suggest lunch together.
Not that she ever makes it easy. She’s been distant these days, brushing me off with polite smiles and excuses of sleep.
It bothers me more than I admit. But maybe today…
maybe lunch could shift something. Maybe I could ask her about the letter, too.
The room is empty.
My smile falters. The curtains sway with a soft breeze, the bed neatly made, her shawl draped over the chair. But no Poorvi.
I step further in, frowning. “Poorvi?”
The silence that greets me is hollow.
I turn and find one of the maids folding fresh linen by the corner. “Where is she?” I ask, sharper than I intend.
She bows her head quickly. “Kunwar-sa, Kunwarani Poorvi has gone to the library. She asked not to be disturbed.”
I exhale, a small tug of something tightening in my chest. The library. Of course. That’s where she disappears when she doesn’t want to be found.
A part of me wants to respect that. She’s studying, she needs the quiet, the solitude. I understand that. She has a world of her own that doesn’t always include me, and maybe that’s fair.
But another voice whispers, sly and persuasive: It won’t be bad if I just get a glimpse of her. One glimpse. She won’t even know.
I stand there for a moment, fighting the war inside myself. Then I give in. I always do.
I walk down the corridor to the library, my steps slower this time, quieter, as though I’m treading on something sacred. The tall carved doors of the library loom ahead, half-closed. My hand hesitates on the handle before I push it gently, silently.
The smell of paper and polish greets me first. And then—
I freeze.
At the far end of the library, Ranbir leans against the table. His arms are braced around her, his body too close—far too close. Her hands press against his chest.
As if she senses me, her head jerks towards me as she looks back, Poorvi’s eyes are wide, her specs slightly askew, her lips parted with the kind of breath that isn’t calm. It’s fear.
My blood ignites.
The world narrows to a single, searing point. Every fiber of my being coils, every muscle tightens with the surge of something primal and merciless. Rage.
Her name rips out of me before I can stop it. “POORVI!”
The sound crashes through the silence, jagged, furious. She startles, twisting toward me. And in that split second, I see her face clearly—her eyes rimmed red, her fear laid bare.
Something inside me shatters.
I move. Urgent, long strides swallowing the space between us, my fists clenched, jaw locked so tight it aches. He doesn’t even flinch. He only smirks, as though my presence is some kind of game.
I reach them, my hand seizing her arm, pulling her away from him with more force than I mean to. She stumbles slightly against me, and I steady her, my heart hammering like war drums in my ears. The sight of her pressed against that table, cornered, will haunt me for as long as I breathe.
And before the next breath leaves me, my fist flies.
The punch lands square against his jaw. The crack of impact reverberates through my bones, through the very air of the library. The satisfaction is immediate but shallow, drowned by the roaring in my head.
Ranbir stumbles back, his lip splitting, but he doesn’t falter long. He straightens, slow and deliberate, and then—he laughs.
The sound is vile, grating, wrong.
“Your wife seduces me,” he drawls, mockery dripping like poison, “and you punch me?” His laughter echoes again, twisting in my chest like a knife.
I see red.
Every instinct screams to finish what I started, to silence that laugh forever. To destroy him for daring to touch her, to make her look at me with fear in her eyes—not of me, but because of him.
My hand tightens protectively around Poorvi’s arm, pulling her just a fraction closer to me, as if my body alone can shield her from the venom still spilling from his mouth. My chest heaves with fury, the weight of it pressing against my ribs, threatening to tear me apart.
I want to kill him.
But right now, all I can do is stand there—between him and her—rage burning me alive, my vision narrowed to the smirk on his bloodied lips and the broken sound of her breath beside me.