9. WRONG TURN
VEERAJ
I ride when I need to think. Or more accurately, when I need to stop thinking.
Most people meditate. Some people go on vacations. Vihaan annoys his wife. I ride my motorcycle through empty roads at midnight and pretend the wind can knock some sense into me.
It usually works. Tonight is proving to be an exception. The city glows beneath a blanket of darkness as I weave through the nearly deserted roads. Streetlights blur into streaks of gold. The cool night air presses against my jacket. The engine vibrates beneath me, familiar and steady.
Usually this helps. Usually the noise quiets everything else. Not tonight. Because somehow my brain has decided to obsess over an NGO.
And a woman. Mostly the woman. Which is deeply unfortunate. I tighten my grip on the handlebars and increase my speed slightly. The engine growls in response. For a few seconds, all I hear is the roar of the motorcycle.
Then my thoughts return. Every single one of them.
A month. One month. That was supposed to be the extent of this ridiculous arrangement. Show up. Smile for cameras. Convince the board that I am not secretly plotting world domination. Leave.
It was supposed to be so simple. Yet somewhere between fixing toy cars and building the bookshelf for the kids, things became unnecessarily complicated.
I don't even particularly like children. At least I didn't think I did. Aadhya is different. She's family. She doesn't count.
But those children . . . I exhale through my nose.
Keshav and his endless questions. Laila and her stubborn refusal to understand fractions. Raj, who somehow says more with a look than most adults do with an entire speech. Rani.
God help me.
Rani. The tiny tyrant who apparently believes yellow is a personality trait.
A reluctant smile almost appears before I kill it immediately.
No.
Absolutely not.
I'm not becoming sentimental. That would be embarrassing.
The road stretches ahead of me. Empty. But my mind isn't. My thoughts continue circling back to the same person.
Diya Goyal.
The woman is exhausting. I've never met anyone so determined to misunderstand me. Every conversation turns into a battle. Every discussion somehow becomes an argument. And she never backs down. Not once. Most people do. They either agree with me or avoid disagreeing altogether.
Diya does neither.
She charges directly into the fight and somehow leaves me irritated every single time.
The problem is . . . I understand why she does it.
That realization is perhaps the most frustrating part. My mind drifts back to yesterday's argument. To the fire in her eyes. To the way her voice shook when she spoke about those children. They need love. The conviction in those words had been absolute.
Unwavering.
As if she believed it down to her bones. As if she'd built her entire life around that belief. People like that usually set off alarms in my head. People who believe in things so fiercely. People who lead with their hearts. People who make decisions based on emotions.
I avoid them. Always. Because eventually reality disappoints them. And when reality disappoints them, they become disappointed in everyone around them too.
It's inefficient.
Messy.
Complicated.
Yet somehow . . . Diya doesn't make me want to walk away.
She makes me curious. Which is infinitely worse.
I want to know why. Why does she believe in love so much?
Why does she fight so hard for those children?
Why does every single person in that building seem willing to follow her into battle?
Why does a woman who has every reason to be cynical somehow still chooses kindness?
And then there's the sadness.
I frown beneath my helmet.
Because it's there. Always. Not obvious enough for most people to notice.
But I do.
A flicker of it appears when she thinks no one is looking. A heaviness behind her eyes. A loneliness she hides beneath sarcasm and stubbornness.
Something happened to her. Something that taught her pain long before it taught her comfort.
I don't know why that bothers me. I only know that it does.
The realization irritates me enough that I take the next turn without thinking. Another turn follows. Then another. The city gradually changes around me. Buildings become familiar. Roads become recognizable.
I glance up. Then swear under my breath.
The NGO.
I'm heading toward the NGO.
How exactly did that happen?
I slow slightly. Then immediately speed up again. Ridiculous. I should turn around. Go home. Sleep. Forget this entire thing exists. Instead I continue forward. Because apparently I enjoy making poor decisions now. The gates of the NGO appear in the distance.
Everything is dark. Quiet. Exactly as it should be at midnight.
I prepare to turn around. Then movement catches my attention. A figure walking along the opposite side of the road.
I narrow my eyes. My pulse immediately spikes.
No.
No way.
It can't be—It is.
Diya.
What the hell?
She's alone. At midnight. Walking. On a road that is definitely not safe enough for that. And if that wasn't concerning enough, three men trail behind her some distance away.
My jaw tightens instantly. I don't even think. I just react. The motorcycle swings into a sharp U-turn. The engine roars beneath me. Within seconds I'm crossing the road. The distance between us disappears rapidly.
I stop directly in front of her. She gasps. Then moves faster than I've ever seen anyone move in my life. A small bottle appears in her hand. Something sprays directly onto my helmet.
I blink.
What. The. Hell.
For a moment we simply stare at each other. Then recognition flashes across her face.
I slowly raise both hands. A universal sign for don't attack me. "It's me." She freezes. I quickly remove my helmet before she decides to spray me again. The second she sees my face, her shoulders drop.
Then she rolls her eyes. Actually rolls her eyes. "As much as I appreciate your dramatic entrance, Your Highness, normal people don't . . . rome around at night on bikes."
I stare at her. "Did you just spray me?"
"You appeared out of nowhere."
"You assaulted me."
"I defended myself."
I look at the wet marks covering my helmet. "What is that?"
"Pepper spray."
I pause. Then nod slowly. Fair. Reasonable, actually. Still offensive. But reasonable. My gaze shifts toward the road behind her. The men are gone now. Probably because a six-foot-two man on a motorcycle suddenly appeared. Smart decision. "What are you doing here?"
She crosses her arms. "Walking."
"It's midnight."
"Congratulations. You can tell time."
My eye twitches. She's impossible. "I can see that."
"Then why did you ask?"
I inhale slowly. Very slowly. The way people do before committing crimes. "Diya."
"Your Highness." She smiles at me tightly.
"What are you doing outside at midnight?"
She shrugs. As if that's a normal answer. "I was working late."
"Till midnight?"
"Well, Laila wanted to hear a bedtime story so . . . " She shrugs and I sigh.
"The night is dangerous."
She rolls her eyes again. "I carry pepper spray."
"Clearly." I point at my helmet.
She doesn't even look guilty. Not remotely. A small silence falls between us. The street remains empty. I resist the urge to leave her here.
Mostly.
"Get on."
Her eyebrows rise. "What?"
"I'll drop you home."
She laughs. As if I've told a joke. "No thanks."
I blink. "No thanks?"
"I can manage."
"I can see how well that's going."
Her eyes narrow. "I was perfectly fine."
"You were being followed."
"They weren't following me."
"They were."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You don't."
I remove my helmet completely before I throw it at her. Because the temptation is becoming concerning. "Get on the bike."
"No."
"Diya."
"Veeraj."
I close my eyes, count to five and open them again.
She's still standing there.
Unfortunately.
"You realize this conversation would be significantly shorter if you just listened to me."
She smiles sweetly. Dangerously sweetly. "You realize I could say the same thing?"
There it is. That stubbornness. That impossible refusal to bend. Any other person would've accepted the ride by now.
Not Diya. Of course not. The woman treats basic concern like a personal attack. I lean forward slightly.
"Get on the motorcycle."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you're bossy."
"I am trying to help you."
"I didn't ask for help."
Something in my chest tightens. Because suddenly she sounds less irritated and more . . . tired.
Just tired.
The kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep. For the first time tonight, I really look at her. The shadows beneath her eyes. The slight slump in her shoulders. The exhaustion she normally hides beneath endless sarcasm. And for some reason, that bothers me more than the argument.
My voice lowers. Just slightly. "Diya."
She looks away. "I said I'm fine."
I don't know why that answer feels familiar. Maybe because I've used it myself a thousand times. Maybe because it's usually a lie. A long silence stretches between us.
Finally I sigh. Then do something I rarely do. I soften. Just enough. "Humor me."
Her eyes return to mine. "What?"
"Get on the bike."
She studies me suspiciously. As though searching for hidden motives. Finding none. Eventually her shoulders drop. A tiny fraction. "You're very annoying."
The corner of my mouth threatens to move. I stop it immediately. "Likewise."
She huffs. Then mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a tyrant under her breath. A few seconds later she climbs onto the motorcycle. Reluctantly. Very reluctantly. Like she's doing me a favor.
I hand her my helmet. She stares at it. Then at me. Then at it again. "What about you?"
"Are you concerned about me, Ms. Goyal?" She glares. I feel strangely satisfied.
She snatches the helmet from my hand. "I still don't like you."
I start the engine. The motorcycle rumbles beneath us. Then I glance over my shoulder. "Good."
She blinks. "What?"
I face forward again. A strange feeling settles somewhere in my chest. Something unfamiliar. Something suspiciously close to amusement.
"That makes two of us.”