16. WHAT DID I SAY?
VEERAJ
I know something is wrong the moment they walk into the room.
Not because of her father. Not because of her mother. Because of her.
Diya walks in behind them, and for the first time since I've met her, she's quiet. Painfully quiet.
The woman who argues over everything. The woman who somehow finds a reason to challenge every opinion I have. The woman who treats me like an inconvenience one minute and a personal project the next.
Gone.
She keeps her gaze lowered. Her shoulders are stiff. Her hands folded tightly in front of her. And something about it immediately puts me in a foul mood.
Devraj bhai sa greets them warmly, inviting them to sit. The meeting begins exactly how I expected.
Politely. Formally. Diplomatically. For approximately five minutes.
Then her father starts talking. And everything goes downhill. "We have always respected the royal family," Mr. Goyal says, shaking his head dramatically. "But this situation has been very difficult for us."
I remain silent. Bhai sa nods. "We understand your concerns."
"A girl's reputation is delicate, Maharaj sa."
My jaw tightens. Beside him, Diya's mother sits silently. Not once looking at her daughter. Not once.
It's strange.
I've only met these people for five minutes and already something feels . . . off.
Bhai sa folds his hands together calmly.
"The photograph should never have happened. It was a breach of privacy on our end. We will do everything in our rights to rectify the situation."
The words are reasonable. Measured. Exactly what a king should say. Yet Mr. Goyal doesn't look satisfied. In fact, he looks almost excited. Like he's waiting for something.
"A girl's reputation is like glass," he continues. "Once cracked, it can never truly be repaired."
My gaze shifts toward Diya. She still hasn't spoken. And knowing her, such thoughts would have been shut down by her before they were even uttered by someone, considering she's sitting there silently . . . it's strange. I frown.
The silence doesn't suit her. It irritates me more than it should.
"Look at her," her father says with a sigh. "She has always been difficult. Always talking back. Never listening. Now this photograph has brought shame directly to our doorstep."
Something cold settles in my chest. Difficult. That's what he calls her. The same woman who spends most of her time caring for dozens of children that nobody else wanted. The same woman who remembers every child's birthday.
Difficult.
I glance at her again. She still doesn't react. Doesn't defend herself. Doesn't argue. Nothing. And somehow that's worse. Much worse.
Before Bhai sa can respond, the words leave my mouth. "The situation is a security breach on our end, Mr. Goyal." I repeat. The room falls silent. His eyes shift to me. I meet them evenly. "Diya is the victim here. Not the perpetrator. Let's keep our definitions clear."
His smile falters. Only slightly. But I see it.
Beside me, Vihaan shifts in his chair. Probably surprised I spoke at all. I don't particularly care.
Mr. Goyal clears his throat. "Of course. Of course. That's not what I meant."
It absolutely is. But again, I let him lead. Because unlike Diya, I know exactly what kind of people these are. I've spent years sitting across boardrooms from men like him.
Greed always leaves traces. And this man is leaving fingerprints everywhere. The conversation continues.
Her father talks. Bhai sa listens. Vihaan occasionally intervenes.
I mostly watch. Watch her. Watch the dynamic between them. And the longer I watch, the more I dislike what I'm seeing. Every time Diya shifts in her chair, her father's eyes immediately move to her. Every time she looks like she might speak, he cuts in first. Every single time.
Control.
Not concern.
Control.
Then comes the moment that changes everything. "I think marriage would solve this problem."
The room goes quiet.
Diya's head snaps upward.
Finally.
A reaction.
Her eyes widen. "P—"
Her father grabs her wrist. Hard. She winces. The movement is quick enough that most people probably miss it.
I don't. His fingers dig into her skin. Her sentence dies immediately. I watch her flinch. Watch her mouth close. Watch her look away. Something ugly rises inside me. Something hot. And suddenly I understand.
The silence. The lack of arguments. The missing fire.
It wasn't gone. It had been extinguished. By the people who were supposed to protect it.
"Marriage is the only solution now," her father continues. "The world isn't kind. Especially to girls like her."
Girls like her.
I don't like the way that sounds. Not one bit.
Bhai sa's expression hardens slightly. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
Mr. Goyal sighs heavily. Like he's carrying some terrible burden. "Let's be realistic."
No. Let's not. Because every time people say that, they're usually about to say something stupid.
"Her skin was already a problem."
Every muscle in my body locks. Beside him, Diya freezes. Her eyes widen as she stares at her father, wordless, as if she's shocked and not at the same time, her cheeks redden and eyes glisten as she finally drops her gaze to the floor.
And for the first time since she entered the room, I see it. Not anger. Not annoyance.
Pain.
Raw. Familiar. The kind that doesn't come from a stranger. The kind that comes from hearing the same thing repeatedly until you almost start believing it.
"Finding suitable matches was already difficult." His voice keeps going. His words are making me angrier. "And now this scandal? No respectable family will consider her."
My hands curl into fists. No respectable family.
I look at Diya. Really look at her. At the stubborn woman who spends her life caring for children.
At the woman who would rather argue with me than flatter me.
At the woman who somehow manages to light up an entire room simply by walking into it.
And this man is discussing her like she's damaged merchandise.
Like she's a burden. Like she's something to get rid of.
A liability.
The word lands like acid. A liability.
I look down at his hand. Still gripping her wrist. Still hurting her. My chair scrapes against the floor. Everyone looks at me.
Slowly, I rise to my feet.
Her father falters. For the first time since entering this room, he looks nervous.
Good.
My voice comes out low. Dangerously calm. "Take your hand off her."
The room goes silent. Completely silent.
His eyes widen. For a second he doesn't move. Then he immediately lets go.
Diya rubs her wrist. I look away before I do something irrational. Like say exactly what I think of him.
Mr. Goyal clears his throat. "I only meant that a royal alliance would solve everything."
There it is. Finally. The truth. Not concern. Not reputation. Not his daughter.
A royal alliance.
The solution he walked into this palace hoping to secure. The realization settles heavily in my chest. He doesn't care that she's hurting. He doesn't care that she's upset. He doesn't care what she wants. He only cares about the opportunity sitting in front of him.
And suddenly I can't stand another second of it. I can't stand the way she's sitting there looking smaller than she should. I can't stand the way her father keeps speaking for her. I can't stand hearing him discuss her as though she isn't even in the room. He shouldn't talk about her if she isn't.
Most of all—I can't stand how sad she looks. The thought hits me unexpectedly. Violently. Because sadness doesn't belong on her.
Annoyance? Absolutely. Chaos? Definitely. Mischief? Every day. But not this. Never this.
Before my brain can catch up with my mouth, I hear myself speak. "I'll marry her."
Silence. Complete and utter silence. The kind that swallows entire rooms whole. I barely hear it. Because my own words are still echoing in my head.
I'll marry her.
I definitely didn't plan on saying that. Across the room, Diya stares at me. Her eyes grow wider. Her mouth falls open. For one absurd second she looks like someone dropped her into the wrong story. The shock on her face is almost enough to make me laugh.
Almost.
Vihaan looks seconds away from choking.
Her mother drops her phone.
Bhai sa blinks. Once. Slowly.
The only person who doesn't seem surprised is me. Which is concerning. Very concerning.
I hold Diya's gaze. She still looks horrified.
Fair.
I'm a little horrified too.
Then I turn toward her father. And whatever amusement I felt disappears immediately.
My voice comes out steady. Final. Unyielding.
"Let's be entirely clear, Mr. Goyal." The man swallows hard. "It would be my absolute pleasure to be your daughter's husband." His eyes widen in surprise, "And from this moment onward, you will speak about her with respect."
I take a step forward. Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just enough. Just enough for him to understand exactly how serious I am.
"Because if we're discussing marriage . . . " My gaze flickers briefly toward Diya before returning to him. " . . . then we're discussing my future wife."
The room goes silent again. This time nobody dares break it.
Not even me.
Because somewhere between standing up and proposing marriage to a woman who spends half her life irritating me . . . I've managed to change the course of both our lives.
And judging by the expression on Diya's face—She realizes it too.