22. STRANGE ABSENCE
VEERAJ
The silence in my palace office is usually the one thing I protect with my life. The room was practically built for solitude—thick limestone walls, towering teak bookshelves that swallow sound, and a massive mahogany desk that creates a comfortable distance between me and everyone else's problems.
For weeks, my visits to Diya's NGO had felt like a punishment disguised as charity work.
Every morning I would prepare myself for the chaos—the children screaming at volumes that should be illegal, the smell of chalk dust and disinfectant, and, of course, Diya herself.
Loud. Stubborn. Determined to argue with me over absolutely everything.
I had convinced myself it was nothing more than a chore.
A temporary obligation because the palace board wanted a Shekhawat prince to look approachable in public.
But now, sitting behind my desk and staring at a pile of land development reports waiting for my signature, the silence feels different.
Too quiet.
The board got exactly what they wanted. Diya and I are married now. The PR problem has been solved permanently, which means my official role at the NGO is over. There is no reason for me to go back.
I should be relieved.
Instead, there's an irritating sense of emptiness sitting at the back of my mind.
My gaze drifts toward the grandfather clock in the corner before I catch myself calculating how long it would take to drive to the NGO.
Ridiculous. Completely pointless. Yet somehow I still do it.
It turns out I had grown used to the chaos.
I had liked it.
No matter how many times a child tried to wipe sticky fingers on my clothes or how many arguments Diya and I had over her refusal to listen to my suggestions, the place felt alive.
Nobody cared that I was a prince. Nobody treated me differently.
To them, I was just a large, grumpy man who stood in doorways and got in everyone's way.
Now my office feels sterile.
The heavy doors swing open without warning.
I don't even look up.
Only one person in this palace is reckless enough to walk into my office without knocking.
I sigh.
Vihaan strolls in with a grin that immediately makes me suspicious. He drops a leather portfolio onto my desk and leans casually against it, arms crossed.
"You look miserable," he says cheerfully. "Did someone cancel your biking plans? Or is this the tragic face of a newly married man who misses his wife?"
I slowly lift my gaze. I don't say a word. Instead, I raise my hand and flip him off.
Vihaan bursts out laughing. "Very mature, Your Highness. Truly inspiring leadership."
"Get to the point, Vihaan."
His grin fades slightly. Business mode. "The internet is still a disaster."
I sigh. Of course it is.
"People are still talking about those leaked photos," he continues. "The story hasn't died down. Now everyone's creating theories about whether the marriage was forced to cover up some royal scandal."
My jaw tightens.
"We're married. Problem should be solved."
"Not for the public." He shakes his head. "People want a story, Veeraj. They want romance. If we don't give them one, they'll create their own. And right now half the internet thinks you're some tyrant who forced a girl into marriage."
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
"You and Diya need to do a joint interview."
The pen in my hand freezes. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
"National television."
I stare at him.
"Live."
My stare hardens.
"Palace courtyard."
I consider murder.
The thought of sitting in front of cameras while strangers ask questions about my personal life sounds like a special form of torture.
Doing it with Diya sounds worse. She's already overwhelmed. And she hates the media almost as much as I do.
"She won't agree to it," I say. "And I'm not forcing her."
Something changes in Vihaan's expression.
For a moment he looks less like my annoying younger brother and more like the strategist who somehow manages half the palace's crises. "You might not have a choice."
I don't like that answer. Neither does my glare.
"If we don't control the narrative," he continues, "the tabloids will start digging into her father's business and the NGO. The longer this drags on, the messier it gets."
I lean back in my chair. Frustration settles heavily in my chest.
"I'll handle the arrangements," Vihaan says. "But you should prepare yourself."
"I hate that sentence."
"I know." He smirks. "You're going to have to look like a man who's hopelessly in love with his wife."
My expression remains flat.
"Can you manage that, or should I hire an acting coach?"
"Get out of my office, Vihaan."
His grin returns immediately. "Good talk." He gives me a mock salute and walks out.
The doors close behind him. Silence returns. But it doesn't feel peaceful anymore.
I stare at the empty chair across from my desk. An interview. Live television. Hours spent sitting beside Diya while cameras analyze every glance, every word, every expression.
A nightmare.
My fingers tap against the desk.
Because the truth is, that isn't the part bothering me.
The part bothering me is the realization that when Vihaan mentioned the interview, the first thing I thought about wasn't the cameras.
It was her.
Those stubborn eyes. That sharp mouth. The way she would eat the anchor if she wishes to, which I hope to God she doesn't.
I drag a hand down my face. This is a problem.
A serious one.
Because apparently I cannot stop thinking about my wife. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.