4. PUBLIC HUMILIATION
VEERAJ
There are very few things in life I genuinely dislike.
I dislike inefficiency. I dislike unnecessary meetings. I dislike people who speak for twenty minutes when two would suffice.
And now, after approximately four hours inside this NGO, I can confidently add another item to the list.
Diya Goyal.
Not because she's rude. Not because she's difficult. Not even because she clearly enjoys irritating me.
No.
The problem is that she does all of it while looking entirely pleased with herself. Which somehow makes it worse.
"Prince Uncle!" I look down.
Jay.
Or maybe Keshav.
No.
Definitely Jay.
I've spent the last hour trying to memorize names because apparently these children multiply every time I blink.
"Yes?"
The boy points dramatically toward the courtyard. "Diya didi is calling you."
Wonderful.
I follow him outside. The moment I step into the sunlight, I immediately know something is wrong.
Diya is standing near a flowerbed. Watching me. Far too innocently. A dangerous expression.
I've known her for three days now and I already recognize that look. That look means trouble. "What?" I ask.
She clasps her hands behind her back and smiles at me. I don't trust that smile. Not even slightly.
"What?"
"Language."
I stare. "What?"
"You sound aggressive."
"I am aggressive."
The smile widens. God help me. "Perfect."
I don't like where this is going. Not one bit. She gestures dramatically toward a large patch of soil near the back garden. Several clay pots sit nearby.
A few gardening tools are scattered around. Children stand around the area looking suspiciously excited. "We're planting flowers."
I look at the soil. Then at her. Then back at the soil.
"No."
She blinks. "No?"
"No."
"Why?"
I resist the urge to rub my temples.
Because somehow I already know this conversation won't end in my favor.
"Because I don't know how."
"You dig a hole."
I stare. She stares back. Neither of us move. Finally she shrugs.
"I suppose the future of the Shekawat empire is doomed if its prince cannot identify dirt."
Several children gasp and I roll my eyes. My jaw tightens. Diya's eyes sparkle. She's baiting me. Deliberately. And the worst part? She knows exactly what she's doing. Unfortunately there are two volunteers nearby.
And one photographer. Because apparently someone from our social media team needs to document activities, Vihaan's words, not mine. Meaning I cannot tell her exactly where she can shove those flower pots.
Three days of menial tasks. It was building furniture the first day, then cleaning the yard and classes, and now this. Never in my life have I ever had to do all this, the funnier part is I cannot complain or give her a piece of my mind because this damn camera person keeps following me.
So instead I roll up my sleeves. Her smile grows. "Wonderful," she says cheerfully.
"I despise you."
"We're just beginning, Your Highness." She smirks as she whispers in my ear.
"Kids! Prince Uncle is helping us!" The cheering that follows is entirely unnecessary. I kneel beside the flowerbed and stare at the shovel, at the dirt.
I've negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts. Handled hostile acquisitions. Navigated political disasters. Yet somehow I am now sitting in the ground preparing to plant flowers with tiny humans.
Life is strange. Very strange.
I push the shovel into the soil. The children immediately crowd around me. Far too close. One thing I've learned is that they have absolutely no understanding of personal space. "Not like that."
I glance toward a tiny girl beside me. Rani.
I remember because she's the serious one. The only child here who looks perpetually disappointed in humanity. She points toward the shovel. "You have to do it deeper."
I adjust. She nods approvingly. Interesting. A few minutes later another child joins. Then another. Soon they're all helping. Passing tools. Carrying small plants. Explaining things. Correcting me. Apparently being a prince does not make me immune to criticism from children.
"You're doing it wrong again." I look up. Keshav.
"What?"
He points. "Everything."
Helpful. Very helpful. Despite myself, I continue working. The children chatter endlessly around me. Telling stories. Arguing. Asking questions.
Somewhere along the way, I stop feeling like an outsider observing them.
Not entirely. But enough.
Enough that I stop checking my watch every five minutes. Enough that I stop calculating how much longer I need to remain here. Enough that I find myself listening when Rani starts explaining why yellow flowers are superior to all other flowers.
Her reasoning makes absolutely no sense. Yet she's oddly passionate about it. I find that mildly concerning. An hour later, we're nearly finished.
Dirt covers my hands. My trousers are ruined. My expensive shoes are suffering. And somehow every child looks proud. As though we've accomplished something significant.
Diya watches from the shade nearby. Arms folded. Expression annoyingly satisfied.
I narrow my eyes at her.
She raises an eyebrow. As if asking what?
Everything. That's what.
Everything about her is irritating. A loud splash interrupts my thoughts. Cold liquid hits my shoulder. I freeze and look down, very slowly.
Brown. Wet. Mud.
There is mud on my shirt. A lot of mud.
The courtyard goes silent. I hear a gasp. Then another. Then—Giggles. My gaze lifts. Every single child is trying—and failing—not to laugh.
I turn toward Diya. She's looking away. A clear indication of guilt.
"Diya." The giggles grow louder. Her shoulders shake. I narrow my eyes.
"Diya." That does it. She breaks. Laughing. Actually laughing. No sign of politeness or composure.
The children immediately join in while I stand there covered in mud while twenty-seven tiny traitors and their ridiculous leader laugh at my expense.
Realization dawns. Slowly. Painfully.
I have been set up. The gardening activity. The helpful children. The suspicious enthusiasm.
Everything.
A prank.
An elaborate prank.
My jaw clenches. "What."
Nobody answers.
Jay finally points toward a bucket hidden behind the flower pots. Evidence. The criminals left evidence. Amateurs.
Diya wipes tears from her eyes. Still laughing. "Oh my God."
I stare at her.
She laughs harder. "I cannot believe you actually fell for it."
"Fell for what?"
"The gardening."
I look at the dirt. Then at her. Then at the children. "You made me plant flowers."
"Yes."
"You made me spend an hour planting flowers."
"Correct."
"You knew I hated every second of it."
She thinks about it. Then nods. "Also correct."
The children collapse into fresh laughter.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Then another. Because unfortunately I cannot strangle anyone. There are witnesses.
When I open my eyes again, Diya is still smiling. Smug. Victorious. Entirely too pleased with herself. "What is wrong with you?"
She grins. "Lots of things."
The honesty catches me off guard. Several children cheer. One of them high-fives her and I roll my eyes. I haven't felt this frustrated in a while.
I brush dirt from my shirt.
Pointless effort. The damage is done. My clothes are ruined. My dignity has suffered. And somehow the woman responsible doesn't look remotely sorry.
The worst part?
The truly horrifying part?
As I watch the children laugh around her, watch the way they cling to her hands and lean against her legs and look at her like she hung the moon herself—I understand exactly why they adore her.
She's impossible.
Exhausting.
Completely ridiculous.
And apparently capable of convincing an entire army of children to participate in organized public humiliation.
The woman is a menace. A menace with a smug smile.
And unfortunately for me, I still have twenty seven days left.