21. UNEXPECTED
DIYA
I am beginning to suspect that the universe enjoys making a complete and utter fool out of me.
That is the only logical explanation for what is currently happening as I walk into the palace dining room fully braced for a battle.
Not a physical one, of course, but the quiet, venomous social warfare that ultra-rich families excel at.
It’s the kind of environment where people politely judge your existence while offering you tea, making subtle, cutting comments disguised as genuine concern, and highlighting every single one of your flaws while pretending they are merely discussing the weather.
I know this game inside out. I have played it my entire life at charity galas, stiff business dinners, high-society fundraisers, and family functions.
Hell, I played it in my own parents' house.
Wealthy people have a PhD in making you feel like a stray dog who wandered into a gallery, all while maintaining a perfectly manicured smile.
Which is exactly why I take a deep breath, roll back my shoulders, and prepare my armor before stepping through the arched doorway.
I am ready to be ignored, to face cold stares, or to endure the heavy, suffocating silence of disapproval.
But the moment I cross the threshold, absolutely nobody cooperates with my expectations.
The dining room itself is staggering—enormous, airy, with morning sunlight streaming through tall, arched windows that look out over the sprawling palace gardens.
But it’s the long teakwood table that stops me in my tracks.
It’s loud. Meher bhabhi sa is sitting near the head of the table, patiently coaxing little Aadhya to eat her breakfast while simultaneously trying to stop the toddler from feeding half her eggs to the family dog waiting expectantly on the marble floor.
A few seats down, Vihaan is completely absorbed in scrolling through his phone, completely oblivious—or pretending to be—as Poorvi casually steals fruit directly from his plate, a soft, indulgent smile tugging at his lips.
Right beside them, Devraj bhai sa is gently holding a cup for Meher bhabhi sa because her hands are completely full with a wriggling toddler.
Further down, Sitara is laughing at something Dhruv just whispered, and Dhruv looks delightfully flustered, rubbing the back of his neck.
The atmosphere isn't formal or stiff. It isn't intimidating.
It feels alarmingly, beautifully normal.
The first person to look up and notice me is Meher bhabhi sa. The moment our eyes meet, her entire face lights up with a warmth that feels entirely too genuine for this early in the morning. "Good morning, Diya!" she calls out, her voice echoing cheerfully against the high ceilings.
My steps falter. My brain stalls because people aren't supposed to sound that genuinely happy to see me before I've even had a cup of coffee. "Morning," I reply, my voice cautious, moving forward like someone trying to approach a potentially dangerous, unpredictable animal.
"Come, sit, you must be starving," she insists, gesturing to the open seats.
Before I can even choose where to awkwardly anchor myself, Veeraj stands up.
Without a word, his large hand grips the back of the heavy carved chair directly beside him, pulling it out for me.
He doesn't say anything grand. He doesn't make a scene of it.
He just moves with a quiet, unbothered fluidness, as though pulling out my chair is the most natural habit in the world.
As though I belong right here, next to him.
A strange, tight knot twists uncomfortably in my chest at the thought, but I swallow it down, quickly slipping into the seat before I can overthink the heat radiating from his broad shoulder so close to mine.
I try my best to look poised, desperately hiding the fact that my internal organs are doing flip-flops.
That turns out to be a massive mistake, because the moment I settle into the cushions, little Aadhya freezes.
Her spoon stops halfway to her mouth, and her big, chocolate-brown eyes lock onto me with terrifying intensity.
I freeze, staring back at her. She stares harder, her tiny brow furrowed as she processes my face.
Then, in a split second, her entire face breaks into a radiant, gap-toothed grin.
"Cha!" she squeals.
Before anyone can even think to grab her, she completely abandons her breakfast, slipping out of her chair like a little liquid noodle and launching herself directly toward me.
I barely have time to extend my arms before her tiny, warm body is wiggling against my side, her small hands clutching at my kurti.
The breath completely leaves my lungs—not from the physical impact, but from the sudden, sharp ache of pure surprise.
Children always do this to me. Always. It is one of the few absolute constants in my chaotic life.
Kids have this terrifying superpower where they decide whether they love or hate a person within approximately three seconds of meeting them.
And for reasons I will never fully comprehend, despite working in the trenches of the NGO dormitories for four years now, they almost always choose me.
I look up at Meher bhabhi sa, panicked that I'm overstepping, but she just gives me a soft, encouraging nod.
Reassured, I scoop Aadhya up, lifting her small weight onto my lap.
She doesn't hesitate for a single second; she immediately climbs all the way up, tucking her tiny knees against my thighs and burying her face into my shoulder as though we’ve known each other for lifetimes.
As though she belongs right here. As though I belong here.
I wrap my arms around her instinctively, my chin resting on her soft, baby-scented hair, and my throat tightens so violently it actually hurts to swallow.
It’s always the children. It seems I am always the chosen one for the little ones, and the irony of it threatens to bring hot tears to my eyes.
Children, who are supposed to be the naive ones, look at my vitiligo, look at my uneven skin, look at my defensive, loud attitude, and they see absolutely nothing but someone to love.
They don't see a liability. They don't see a scandal.
But adults? Adults are supposed to be the mature ones, the ones capable of empathy and understanding, yet they are the ones who have spent my entire life treating me like a broken piece of inventory.
My own father, the aunties in our social circles, men who looked at my skin with masked disgust—adults always find a reason to hate, to judge, to discard.
They see patches of missing pigment and write off your entire worth. But this little girl just sees 'Cha'.
I keep my eyes lowered, blinking rapidly to force down the sudden emotional wave, refusing to cry into a toddler's breakfast. When I finally look up, expecting to see a row of critical eyes judging my sudden lack of royal decorum, I find the exact opposite.
Devraj bhai sa is watching us with a look of profound amusement, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Well," he says, leaning back in his chair, "it seems Aadhya has officially replaced Veeraj as your biggest fan. Good luck getting her off your lap for the rest of the day, Diya."
Poorvi giggles, passing a bowl of fresh papaya toward my side of the table. "Seriously, she usually takes weeks to warm up to new people. You must have magic powers, Diya. Eat something, you look like you didn't sleep at all."
I sit there, entirely paralyzed, the bowl of fruit hovering near my hand.
My entire worldview is experiencing a violent, destabilizing tremor.
I expected rudeness. I expected icy neglect, snide remarks about the rushed wedding, or a subtle isolation that would make me want to crawl back to my dorm room.
That is what rich people do; that is the blueprint I've been handed my entire life. But looking around this sunlit room, watching Vihaan playfully swat Poorvi’s hand away from his plate, seeing Meher bhabhi sa smile at me with nothing but pure, unadulterated kindness—my armor feels suddenly heavy, useless, and incredibly stupid.
They aren't looking at my skin. They aren't looking at the scandal. They are just passing the breakfast.
Beside me, I feel rather than see Veeraj shift.
His shoulder brushes mine, a steady, grounding pressure that somehow anchors me to the earth when my brain is floating in disbelief.
He reaches out, quietly pouring a cup of hot, steaming chai, and slides it right next to my plate.
He doesn't say a word, and he doesn't look at me, keeping his grumpy, stoic face directed at his own plate, but the gesture is loud enough to shatter the last of my defenses.
As Aadhya happily plays with the fabric of my sleeve, I realize the palace might be terrifying for a completely different reason than I thought. They aren't going to break me with cruelty. They might actually break me with kindness.