20. WRITTEN IN HENNA
VEERAJ
I don't fall asleep immediately like I usually do. Years of twelve-hour workdays, board meetings, site visits, financial reviews, and people constantly needing something from me have trained my body to shut down the second my head touches a pillow.
Tonight, however, sleep stays stubbornly out of reach.
The room is quiet. She seems to be asleep. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, painting pale silver across the floor.
I didn't know she talks in her sleep. Not full conversations. Just random, incoherent mumbling every now and then.
Five minutes ago she threatened someone named Bob with bodily harm if he touched her chocolate stash. The girl is unconscious and still picking fights.
A corner of my mouth almost twitches.
I stare at the ceiling. Because unfortunately my brain has decided tonight is a good time for thinking.
A terrible decision.
I turn my head slightly.
The moonlight catches the outline of her face. She's sleeping on her side. One hand tucked beneath her cheek. The other resting carelessly on the blanket.
For the first time since I've known her, she's completely still. No arguments. No dramatic speeches. No attempts to provoke me. No suspicious plans brewing behind her eyes. Just peace.
Strangely, she looks younger when she's asleep.
Softer.
And suddenly I understand why seeing her in that meeting the day before yesterday bothered me so much.
Because it wasn't just that her father was being disrespectful.
It wasn't just the comments. Or the way he spoke about her.
It was the look in her eyes. The exhaustion.
Like she'd heard every word before. Like none of it surprised her.
I exhale slowly. My gaze shifts back to the ceiling.
Something about her parents doesn't sit right with me. It hasn't from the beginning.
When the board first sent me to the NGO, I'd heard enough about the Goyals to know who they were.
Wealthy.
Well-connected.
Philanthropic.
The sort of family newspapers loved featuring. Every article showed smiling photographs. Perfect family portraits. Their daughter standing proudly beside them.
A family everyone admired.
Yet the people I met don't resemble those photographs at all.
I think about her father. About the way his hand tightened around her wrist. The way he spoke over her.
The way he looked relieved when marriage entered the conversation.
Not emotional. Not hesitant. Relieved. As though someone had finally solved a problem.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
Then there's her mother.
I frown.
Because somehow that bothered me even more.
Cruel people are easy to understand. You know where you stand with them.
Indifference is harder. Her mother had watched the entire conversation unfold without saying a word.
Watched her daughter sit there being discussed like a business transaction.
She watched her cry. She watched her fall apart.
And nothing. Not a single protective instinct. Not a single objection.
Nothing.
I rub a hand across my face. We knew she was adopted. That was never hidden from anyone. But adoption isn't the issue.
Hell, Bhai sa always says family has very little to do with blood and everything to do with choice.
I've seen enough proof of that in my own life.
No.
The problem isn't that Diya was adopted. The problem is that somewhere along the way, her parents forgot they were supposed to love her. And for reasons I can't quite explain, that realization makes something ugly settle in my chest.
I think about the vidaai. About how every wedding I've attended has followed the same pattern. Mothers crying. Fathers pretending not to. Families struggling to let go. Even when they're happy. Even when they approve. Even when they know their daughter is walking into a good life.
There's always grief. Always. I remember Sitara's wedding, we were all exhausted with everything that happened but it was Dhruv so that was reassuring, still seeing her walk away, I still remember it might be the only day of my adulthood where I cried like a baby.
But in our case . . . Diya's father looked satisfied. Her mother looked distracted.
And Diya . . . I close my eyes briefly. Because I remember the way she hugged the staff. Not her mother. Not her father.
The staff.
I remember the way her composure finally cracked. The tears. The trembling smile. The desperate attempt to be brave. That wasn't the reaction of someone leaving home. That was the reaction of someone leaving the only person who had ever felt remotely nice.
I shift onto my side. Trying to force my thoughts elsewhere. Unsuccessfully.
Because now another problem exists. Marriage. My marriage.
The words still feel absurd.
If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be married by the end of this week, I would've recommended psychological evaluation.
Yet here we are.
A prince who doesn't believe in love. Married.
The irony isn't lost on me.
I had planned on avoiding the love and marriage stage in my life but then Diya happened.
I groan internally. Because even thinking her name creates complications.
She makes no sense. One minute she's threatening me. Next she's defending a child with everything she has. She drives me insane. Questions everything. Challenges everything. Refuses to be intimidated by me.
And somehow she still managed to cry herself to sleep in a room with a man who was so coward that he couldn't even offer her a few words of kindness. All I did was stay in my place and hear her quiet sniffles.
My jaw tightens. I don't like thinking about that.
At all. A small movement beside me pulls me from my thoughts.
Diya shifts in her sleep, her breathing stuttering for a second before softening back into a quiet rhythm.
As she turns toward me, the heavy silk blanket slides slightly, and one hand falls across the mattress, settling in the empty space between us.
My eyes follow the movement automatically. And stop.
The intricate patterns of dark henna still decorate her skin, reaching from her fingertips all the way midway up her forearm.
The mehandi artist did exceptional work—the lines are incredibly fine, a rich, deep mahogany against the lighter, pigment-free patches of her vitiligo.
The contrast is striking. Traditional motifs of blooming lotus flowers and swirling vines trace the curves of her wrist, wrapping around her skin like a delicate, permanent piece of armor.
I find myself leaning in just a fraction closer, tracing the geometric symmetry of the lines with my eyes. My gaze wanders over the delicate leaves, the tiny dots, and then catches on something hidden near the inside of her wrist.
Intertwined perfectly within the shading of a lotus leaf are letters. Devanagari script, tiny and deliberately obscured.
Veeraj.
A faint smile tugs at my lips before I can even think to stop it.
The relatives at the function must have teased her mercilessly while forcing the artist to hide it there, and I can practically picture Diya rolling her eyes, huffing, and snapping at them to leave her alone.
Yet, she didn't wash it off. My name is sitting right there against her pulse point.
The smile fades as a sudden, jarring wave of confusion hits me.
What am I doing? I’m hovering over her like a shadow, staring at her hands while she sleeps, getting lost in the details of a woman who, just a few hours ago, called me a royal robot.
I don't do this. I don't soften, I don't linger, and I certainly don't get fascinated by a girl who throws helmets at my chest. She’s loud, she’s chaotic, and she’s supposed to be a temporary arrangement to fix a disaster.
But looking at her now, without the defensive walls and the sharp-tongued retorts, she just looks . . . fragile. A stray curl has escaped her braid, fallen across her cheek, and is moving slightly with every breath she takes.
Before my brain can argue with my hands, I reach out.
My fingers hesitate for a beat in the cool air before I gently brush the strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
My knuckles accidentally graze the soft skin of her jaw, and she lets out a tiny, contented sigh, leaning slightly into the warmth of the touch before settling deeper into the pillows.
I pull my hand back instantly, my chest tightening with a strange, heavy ache.
This is dangerous. She’s a storm I didn't ask for, and I have no idea how to navigate her. But as I finally lie back down on my side of the bed, staring up at the dark canopy, the roaring silence of the palace doesn't feel as oppressive anymore.
We’ll figure this out tomorrow. For now, I will just close my eyes.