The Defiant Wife (Dynasty of Desire #4)

1. PUBLIC RELATIONS NIGHTMARE

VEERAJ

"Are you fucking kidding me, Vihaan?"

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Across the conference table, my younger brother doesn't even have the decency to look apologetic. If anything, the bastard looks amused. Amused.

I stare at him in disbelief while he leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, looking far too relaxed for someone who has just single-handedly managed to ruin my month.

Maybe my life.

Fine, that sounds dramatic. I know it sounds dramatic because I don't do drama.

But at this moment, sitting in one of the private meeting rooms after our quarterly board meeting, I genuinely feel like launching myself across the polished mahogany table and punching him square in the jaw.

Vihaan presses his lips together, clearly trying—and failing—not to laugh.

"What can I do, bro?" he asks innocently. "The board wanted a solution. I gave them one."

I drag a hand down my face.

A solution.

Right.

Because apparently being shipped off to work at an NGO for an entire month qualifies as a solution.

I turn my attention to the only person in this room who should have some common sense.

"Bhai sa." He glances up from his phone.

The King of Udaipur.

My elder brother. Supposedly the responsible one. The one person who should be on my side.

He shrugs. Actually shrugs. "It's not that bad, Veeraj."

I stare at him. Then I stare some more. Then I wonder if perhaps both my brothers have suffered simultaneous head injuries.

"Not that bad?" I repeat slowly.

Bhai sa has the audacity to nod. I laugh. A sharp, humorless sound. "Not that bad?" I repeat again, because surely I heard wrong the first time. "You are asking me to go work in an NGO for a month."

Vihaan finally loses the battle against his laughter. "It's not my fault you look mean and scary."

"I am not scary."

Both my brothers look at me. Silent. Unimpressed.

I narrow my eyes. "I am not."

Vihaan raises a brow. "Bhai sa?"

Bhai sa doesn't even look up this time. "You're terrifying."

I gape at him. "Traitor." He chuckles.

I hate both of them. Truly. Deeply. With commitment. The room falls silent for a moment. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the late afternoon sun paints golden streaks across the city. Cars move below like tiny dots. The business headquarters stretches several floors beneath us.

A business empire built over generations. A business empire I practically run. A business empire that apparently does not care about profit margins, expansion projects, or quarterly growth.

No.

Instead they care about whether I smile enough.

I slump further into my chair. "Why do people care if I'm friendly?" I ask. "I get the work done."

Because I do.

Every target met. Every project completed. Every crisis is handled. The numbers speak for themselves. Isn't that enough?

Apparently not. "The public likes approachable faces," Vihaan says.

"The public should get hobbies."

"The public buys our products."

I scowl. "The public is exhausting."

Vihaan laughs again. God. He's enjoying this. He's genuinely enjoying every second of my suffering.

"Just do it," he says. "Besides, I already spoke to the NGO owner."

I immediately don't like where this conversation is going. "What NGO owner?"

"The one you'll be working with."

The headache beginning behind my eyes intensifies. "Wonderful."

"She's sweet." I close my eyes. When I open them again, Vihaan is grinning.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"No reason."

"You're smiling like you have a reason."

"Nope."

I point at him. "That's exactly the smile you get before making my life difficult."

Bhai sa laughs into his coffee.

Vihaan looks offended. "I would never."

"Liar."

"Rude."

"Liar."

"Grumpy."

"Annoying."

"Scary."

"Vihaan."

He grins wider. I hate him. I really do. The problem is that I know exactly how this happened. The entire disaster started three hours ago during the annual board meeting.

Everything had been normal initially.

Financial reports.

Growth projections.

Expansion plans.

Profit discussions.

The kind of things I actually care about. The kind of things that make sense. Numbers don't lie. Numbers don't change their minds. Numbers don't wake up one day and decide they feel differently. Numbers are reliable.

People are not. Then one of the board members had cleared his throat. The warning sign. I should have known.

"Your Highness." I hate when they use that tone. The careful one. The one that means they're about to suggest something ridiculous. "We believe there is room for improvement regarding public perception."

Public perception. Two words capable of ruining an otherwise productive day.

I remember setting my pen down. Slowly. Carefully.

Because experience has taught me that when people start talking about public perception, logic usually leaves the room shortly afterward.

"What exactly needs improvement?"

A mistake.

I shouldn't have asked. The floodgates opened immediately. Apparently I look intimidating. Apparently I seem unapproachable. Apparently younger audiences find me severe. Apparently some focus groups described me as frightening.

One woman had actually said I looked like the kind of man who would reject a loan application and then sleep peacefully afterward. Which, for the record, is ridiculous. I would sleep perfectly peacefully. The rejection would have been justified. That's the point.

Meanwhile the board members had continued listing concerns while I sat there wondering whether any of them had actual work to do.

Then came the truly horrifying suggestion.

Marriage. I physically remember blinking. Just once. Slowly. Because surely I had misheard. Marriage. As a public relations strategy. As though finding a wife was equivalent to launching a marketing campaign. Thankfully Bhai sa shut that down immediately.

Vihaan too. For which I was genuinely grateful. Because absolutely not. Not now. Not later. Not ever if I can help it.

People assume I don't believe in love because something tragic happened. Because some woman broke my heart. Because I witnessed some devastating relationships growing up.

None of those things are true. I've been surrounded by love my entire life.

Maa-sa and Baapu sa. Bhai sa and Meher bhabhi sa. Sitara and Dhruv. Vihaan and Poorvi.

Everywhere I look, there are examples of happy relationships. Healthy relationships. Successful relationships. The evidence exists.

I acknowledge that. I simply don't understand it. Love has always seemed like the least practical decision a person can make. You build your life around emotions. You trust another person with your happiness. You willingly hand someone the ability to affect your peace.

Why?

Logic keeps you alive. Discipline builds success. Consistency creates stability.

Love?

Love seems like chaos people willingly volunteer for. No thank you. Unfortunately, after the marriage idea died, Vihaan had raised his hand.

The exact moment my life took a turn for the worse.

"If the goal is improving public image," he had said, "why don't we have Veeraj work with one of our partner NGOs?"

I remember staring at him. Then staring some more. I was certain I had misunderstood. I hadn't. The board loved it. Absolutely loved it. Something about community involvement.

Human connection. Visibility. Relatability. The kind of words PR teams worship. And because every person in that room suddenly seemed convinced it was brilliant, I had found myself severely outnumbered.

I groan, rubbing my hand against my face, "This is absurd."

"It's one month."

"It's thirty-one days."

Vihaan rolls his eyes. "You sound like you're being sentenced."

"I am being sentenced."

I glance between them.

My brothers. My family. The people responsible for this disaster.

And despite my irritation, despite the headache forming behind my eyes, despite the fact that I fully intend to complain about this for the foreseeable future—I know they're not trying to make my life difficult.

Well.

Bhai sa isn't. Vihaan absolutely is. But beneath the teasing, beneath the frustration, beneath the endless interference in my business, they've always wanted what's best for me. Which is annoying. Because it makes it difficult to stay angry.

I rise from my chair.

"Where are you going?" Vihaan asks.

"To prepare for my month of suffering."

"It's an NGO, not a prison."

I pause at the door and look back. "Debatable." Bhai sa laughs again, I had hardly seen him do that, until bhabhi sa happened, that is and now after the birth of his daughter . . . it's safe to say he's a huge softie.

Vihaan throws a paperclip at me.

I catch it without looking.

Then I leave before either of them can come up with another brilliant idea that ruins the rest of my year.

The door clicks shut behind me.

The hallway is quiet. Exactly how I like things. I loosen my tie slightly as I walk toward my office.

One month.

Thirty-one days.

An NGO.

Children, probably. Volunteers. People. Too many people.

The thought alone makes me tired.

Still, the decision has already been made. The board got what they wanted. My brothers got what they wanted. And apparently public perception now requires my personal involvement.

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

I shove my hands into my pockets and continue down the corridor.

One month.

Then I can return to my actual life.

A life that makes sense. A life built on logic. A life free from public relations campaigns disguised as community service.