19. MY HUSBAND
DIYA
I have a husband. The thought follows me all the way from the wedding venue to the palace, not in a dramatic, butterflies-and-violins sort of way, but more in a bewildered, what-on-earth-just-happened-to-my-life fashion.
Just one week ago, my biggest concerns were whether Raj's hearing appointment would get pushed back again and if Keshav had finally stopped hiding crayons inside the library books at the NGO. Now? I’m married to a prince.
A grumpy, infuriating prince who somehow went from being the bane of my existence to being legally attached to me for the foreseeable future. Life is strange. Very, very strange.
The royal wing is quieter at night than I expected, the vast halls softly lit while the staff move around like ghosts.
The entire palace seems to breathe with a heavy, ancient gravity after sunset, making everything feel larger, softer, and almost lonely.
For a moment, a wave of homesickness catches me off guard; I genuinely miss the noisy NGO dormitories, the sound of children arguing over blankets, Lucky sneaking into someone else's bed because he was scared of thunderstorms, and Rani threatening violence over board games.
It's a jarring realization because, for the first time in my life, I don't know where I belong.
My parents' house never felt like home, the NGO became my sanctuary, and now I’ve somehow ended up in a literal palace with a man I can barely read.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind us, and I immediately freeze.
Good lord, the room is enormous—the sleeping quarters alone are bigger than the entire floor of my parents' house.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the darkened palace gardens, a plush seating area occupies one corner across from a carved marble fireplace, and the bed .
. . the bed is criminally large. I stare at it, entirely convinced you could host a small corporate conference on that mattress without anyone bumping elbows.
Veeraj doesn't seem remotely bothered by the sheer scale of the room. He’s already hung up his heavy wedding sherwani in the dressing alcove, returning in a simple black t-shirt and track pants.
He folds his discarded silk pocket square with the kind of intense focus people usually reserve for heart surgery.
His expression remains completely neutral, calm, and collected—honestly, it’s offensive.
My life has completely derailed in less than forty-eight hours, and this man is arranging his cufflinks on the dresser like he's preparing next week's budget report.
Does he even possess a single human emotion, or is he powered entirely by batteries and royal obligation?
I refuse to believe any human being can remain this unshakeable.
Narrowing my eyes, a spark of stubborn determination flares to life inside me.
This is a challenge. Unlike everyone else, I now have unlimited, twenty-four-hour access to his personal space.
If anyone can crack the stoic mystery of Veeraj Singh Shekhawat, it's me.
Operation: Make The Prince React officially re-begins tonight.
I toss my heavy bridal jewelry onto the dresser, turning around just in time to see him carrying a pillow toward the sitting area. I blink in disbelief. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"
Without looking up, he adjusts the pillow beneath his arm. "Taking the couch."
I glance at the elegant, ridiculously expensive sofa, then back to him. "Don't be ridiculous. Look at the size of that bed; it's practically a football field. We are adults, Veeraj. I think we can manage to share a mattress without a border dispute."
That finally earns a reaction—a tiny pause as he gives me the sort of look one reserves for a mildly concerning individual. "I'm trying to be a gentleman, Diya."
The quiet sincerity catches me off guard, just enough that I have to double down to hide it. "Well, don't strain yourself. It doesn't suit your face. Just sleep over there, stay on your latitude, and don't breathe too loudly. I value my sleep."
The corner of his mouth twitches, a microscopic shift that feels like a massive victory. "Fine," he says, his voice infuriatingly steady. "Try not to kick in your sleep, Trouble."
I gasp, my hands dropping to my hips. "You made a joke."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
He walks past me toward the bed, his shoulders rigid. "I regret speaking."
I grin, entirely pleased with myself. This is going beautifully, far better than expected.
Several minutes later, we're both lying beneath separate blankets on opposite sides of the gigantic bed, an absurd mountain of decorative velvet pillows forming an unofficial border between us.
The room is dark except for the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains, bringing a heavy silence that makes every single one of my thoughts louder.
I stare at the ceiling, acutely aware of the silhouette occupying the other side of the mattress.
My husband. My stomach does a weird, anxious flip.
Marriage always felt like something that happened to other people, yet there's a man sleeping ten feet away who legally claims the title.
The silence stretches until I can't take it anymore. "Hey."
No response. I smirk into the dark. "Royal Robot." I sing-song.
A heavy, exhausted sigh emerges from the shadows. Success. "I was trying to sleep, Diya."
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Do you ever just yell? Like, privately? Do you have a soundproof room somewhere, or do you just scream into pillows? Maybe that's why you're so emotionally constipated."
"Only when you're talking," he murmurs.
I immediately sit upright, clutching my chest dramatically. "Oh my God, that was an insult! An actual, organic insult. Look at you, exhibiting signs of sentient life."
A dangerous sort of quiet settles over the room, the kind that usually warns sensible people to retreat.
Unfortunately for Veeraj, I have never been sensible.
His voice cuts through the dimness, a low, warning rumble.
"Go to sleep, Diya. Before I remember I have the royal authority to banish you to the hallway. "
I grin wider, leaning back against my headboard. "You wouldn't dare. It would ruin your perfect gentleman reputation."
Silence follows, long and heavy. I settle back against my pillow, thoroughly convinced I've gotten the last word. Operation: Make The Prince React is already succeeding.
Then, the mattress dips. My smile vanishes instantly.
The bed doesn't just shift; his weight moves closer, sending my pulse tripping over itself.
The border of pillows remains technically intact, but suddenly he is right there, close enough that I can make out the sharp outline of his jaw in the moonlight.
The woodsy, warm scent of his cologne reaches me—the exact same scent from the motorcycle ride—and my lungs completely forget how to function.
Veeraj leans forward slightly, his dark eyes catching the pale light, erasing every coherent thought from my brain.
"I don't care about my reputation, Diya," he says, his voice dropping into a low, velvet purr that feels far too smooth for a man who barely speaks.
He tilts his head, his nose almost brushing the edge of the pillow line.
"And if I remember correctly . . . you didn't seem particularly burdened by my lack of gentlemanly manners when I had you pinned against your front porch through a helmet. "
My breath catches loudly, a horrible, mortifying squeak in the quiet room.
The ensuing silence is devastating because he definitely heard it. I can actually hear the tiny note of smug satisfaction in his breath as he settles back onto his pillow, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that he just executed a textbook piece of emotional warfare.
"Your heart is doing that cardio thing again," he drifts out lazily. "Go to sleep."
I stare blindly at the ceiling, pulling the blanket all the way over my face to hide my burning cheeks.
What exactly am I supposed to do with that?
The plan was simple: annoy him, tease him, provoke a reaction, and win.
Instead, I’ve discovered that beneath all that royal composure lurks a man fully capable of choosing absolute psychological violence when pushed.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will recover, regroup, and resume the mission. Next time, I'm winning. Probably. Hopefully.
A soft, low chuckle echoes from the other side of the bed. My eyes widen under the covers. The traitor is still awake.
"Good night, Diya."
I glare through the fabric at the darkness. "Good night, Your Royal Pain in the Ass."
The chuckle comes again, quieter this time, melting into the quiet rhythm of the room.
And somewhere between my embarrassment and my racing pulse, exhaustion finally pulls me under.
For the first time in years, I fall asleep in a space that doesn't feel lonely—though I won't admit that to myself until the morning.