18. THE VOWS WE DON’T SPEAK
VEERAJ
Marriage, I've discovered, is significantly less romantic when it begins with a public relations disaster. The thought comes to me as I stand beneath a mandap decorated with white jasmine and soft golden marigolds.
The ceremony is small. Painfully small by royal standards. Just immediate family. Just the people who matter.
No politicians. No cameras. No crowds. No spectacle.
Bhai sa had insisted on that. And for once, I am grateful. The sacred fire crackles quietly between us. The priest chants mantras in a calm, steady rhythm. The scent of sandalwood lingers in the air.
Everything feels strangely distant. Muted. Like I'm watching someone else's life unfold. Across from me sits my bride.
My wife. The thought still feels absurd.
Diya keeps her gaze lowered. She hasn't looked at me once. Not properly. Not since yesterday. Not since I apparently lost my mind and proposed marriage in front of both our families.
The realization makes me suppress a sigh.
Because now that the anger has faded and logic has returned, I can't stop thinking about one thing. I never asked her. Not once. I didn't ask what she wanted. I didn't ask whether she agreed. I didn't ask whether marriage to me was something she could even tolerate.
I simply decided. Just like her father had. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Around us, family members speak softly amongst themselves.
Dhruv is seated beside Sitara, whispering something that makes her elbow him in the ribs. Vihaan looks entirely too pleased with himself. Poorvi keeps trying not to laugh every time she catches him staring at us.
Bhai sa sits beside Meher bhabhi sa, calm and composed as always, though every now and then I catch the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
I choose to ignore it.
Entirely.
The priest pauses to prepare the next ritual. The brief interruption creates a pocket of silence around us.
And before I can overthink it, I lean slightly closer. Close enough that only she can hear me. "Diya."
Her shoulders stiffen immediately. Not exactly encouraging.
I stare at the fire for a second before speaking. "I'm sorry."
For the first time all morning, she reacts. Barely. Just a tiny pause. A tiny inhale.
But I notice. I always notice her, apparently. Her gaze remains fixed on the flames. She says nothing. I continue anyway. "I was inconsiderate."
The words feel unfamiliar. Not because they aren't true. Because admitting them out loud rarely comes naturally to me. "I wanted to shut your father up."
A very noble goal, in my opinion. "But I didn't ask what you wanted."
Finally, she turns her head slightly. Not enough to look at me. Enough to show she's listening. I take that as progress. "I forced your hand."
The confession settles heavily between us. The fire crackles softly. Aadhya throws flowers at us when it's absolutely not needed as she giggles and waddles back to her mother.
"I made a decision that affects your entire life." My voice lowers further. "And for that . . . I am sorry."
She says nothing. I don't push. I don't expect forgiveness. Hell, I don't even expect a response.
Then quietly, almost reluctantly, her eyes lift. Meeting mine.
Guarded.
Wary.
Waiting.
For the catch. For the condition. For the demand. I've seen that look before. People waiting for the price of kindness. People assuming help comes attached to obligations. Something twists unpleasantly inside my chest.
So I answer the question she hasn't asked.
"Considering we're here now . . . " I glance toward the fire.
The priest continues preparing the next ritual.
Everyone remains distracted. For a moment, it feels like we're the only two people beneath this mandap.
" . . .standing in front of this fire . .
. " My gaze returns to hers. "I guess there's no turning back. "
Something flickers across her face. Resignation maybe. Or disappointment. I immediately add, "For a while, at least."
One of her eyebrows lifts. There she is. There's the woman who argues with me. Good. I like her much better than the silent version. I shift slightly in my seat. Then say the thing I need her to understand. The thing that matters most.
"I am a lot of things, Diya." A tiny snort escapes her. Fair.
"Grumpy." That earns another one.
"Difficult." Her lips twitch.
"Occasionally unreasonable."
"Occasionally?" she mutters.
I ignore that. "But I am not a captor."
The amusement disappears from her face. Immediately. Because now she understands I'm serious. I hold her gaze. Steady. Her brown eyes shining with the reflection of fire. "I will never force you into anything."
The noise around us fades. Family members continue chatting. The priest continues chanting. Yet somehow everything narrows to this moment. "Not your affection." Something vulnerable flashes through her eyes. "Not your time." The vulnerability deepens. "And certainly not this marriage."
She blinks. I continue before she can interrupt.
"You keep your life." Her expression softens.
"You keep your work." Softer. "You keep your space.
" Something inside her visibly loosens. The tension that's been sitting in her shoulders all morning finally begins to ease.
"This marriage will work on your terms, always.
" Only a little. But enough. Enough for me to notice. Enough for me to feel oddly relieved.
Then, because the conversation has become dangerously serious and because she looks seconds away from crying again, I decide to fix it. The only way I know how. Poorly.
"And . . . "
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. Reasonable.
"I suppose I can negotiate with my schedule."
The suspicion deepens.
"If you need an extra pair of hands at your NGO . . . "
A tiny spark appears in her eyes.
" . . . or someone to intimidate donors into writing larger cheques . . . "
That does it.
The corner of her mouth twitches.
I continue. "Apparently I'm terrifying."
"You are." Her voice is quite,
"I've been informed."
"Repeatedly."
I nod solemnly. "A tragic burden."
The twitch becomes an actual smile. Small. Reluctant. Barely there. But real.
For the first time since yesterday. For the first time since she walked into that meeting looking completely defeated. She smiles.
And God help me.
It hits me harder than it should. Straight to the chest. Like someone physically reached inside and squeezed something.
The satisfaction arrives unexpectedly. A ridiculous amount of relief for something as simple as a smile.
I stare at her for a second too long. Long enough that she notices. Long enough that she immediately looks away. The smile lingering. Still there. Still real.
The priest announces the next ritual. The moment ends. Family members shift forward. The ceremony resumes. Yet I find myself oddly content.
Because for the first time since this disaster began, she doesn't look trapped. She doesn't look defeated. She doesn't look alone.
And as I watch the faint curve remaining on her lips, one dangerous realization settles quietly into my mind.
Making Diya smile might become a very bad habit.
Especially when she still thinks I'm a giant oaf.
A giant oaf she just married.