23. WALKING INTO WALLS
VEERAJ
Sitting on a velvet-upholstered settee in the middle of the palace courtyard with three high-definition cameras pointed directly at my face is my personal version of hell.
The afternoon sun is bright, reflecting off the white marble floors, but it has nothing on the irritation currently crawling beneath my skin.
The anchor—a polished woman with perfect hair and a smile that tells me she enjoys making people uncomfortable for a living—has spent the last ten minutes asking carefully worded questions, trying to find cracks in our perfectly arranged royal story.
I am doing my part.
My posture is straight. My answers are short. My expression is neutral. I am surviving this interview. Or at least I was. Until the woman sitting beside me decided to abandon whatever script we were supposed to be following.
Diya is wearing a soft peach georgette saree, and she looks annoyingly beautiful. More importantly, she looks entertained. That should have been my first warning. The slight sparkle in her eyes. The way her fingers tap lightly against her knee. The tiny curve threatening the corner of her mouth.
She's bored. And a bored Diya is dangerous.
She knows I hate interviews. She knows I hate attention. She knows I can't snap at her in front of live cameras. Which means she currently has all the power.
And she's enjoying every second of it.
"Prince Veeraj has given us a very formal timeline," the anchor says with a laugh before turning toward Diya. "But surely there was a moment when things changed? A moment when you realized he was interested in you?"
"Oh, absolutely." The second those words leave her mouth, I know I'm in trouble.
Her voice is far too sweet. Far too innocent. The kind of tone she uses right before creating problems.
She folds her hands neatly in her lap and smiles. "Veeraj likes pretending he's all business and protocol, but honestly, he was gone from the first week he stepped into the NGO. He just didn't know it yet."
Slowly, I turn my head toward her. My eyes narrow. Stop.
That is the message I'm trying to send. Unfortunately, Diya has never respected warnings. She doesn't even look at me. Instead, she leans slightly toward the anchor like she's about to reveal a national secret.
"We met near the children's dormitory," she continues. "I was carrying a stack of art books, and the lighting was apparently very dramatic that day."
My stomach drops. Oh no.
"Veeraj turned the corner, saw me, and found me so beautiful that he completely lost all sense of direction."
The camera crew is already trying not to laugh. I close my eyes for half a second. This woman is going to be the death of me.
"He walked straight into the pillar."
Laughter erupts behind the cameras. The anchor gasps. "No!"
"Directly into it," Diya says with a solemn nod. "A very loud thud. I was obviously concerned, so I rushed over to check if he was alright. And while holding his forehead, completely dazed by my beauty apparently, he looked up and asked me out."
The courtyard explodes. People are laughing openly now. Even the anchor is struggling to compose herself.
Meanwhile, I am discovering new levels of patience.
I have never walked into a wall. Ever. I ride horses. I fence. I play polo. I have excellent coordination. And yet somehow this woman has convinced half the country that I suffered a head injury because I couldn't stop staring at her.
My jaw clenches. My fists tighten against my knees.
The urge to drag her into the nearest hallway and remind her exactly who she's dealing with is becoming stronger by the second.
And yet . . . Against all logic . . . Part of me is amused. Because looking at her. She's having the time of her life. She's charming everyone around her. What was supposed to be a stiff, uncomfortable interview has somehow turned into a comedy show.
The crew loves her. The anchor loves her. The audience is probably going to love her too.
She's impossible.
Absolutely impossible.
"Is this true, Kunwar Sa?" the anchor asks, turning toward me with obvious excitement. "Did a Shekhawat prince really walk into a wall because of a beautiful woman?"
I take a slow breath. Then another. Finally, I look directly at the camera.
"Obviously," I say in the driest voice possible, "have you looked at my wife," I turn my towards her and take her hand in mine squeezing it in a warning, "anyone would be amazed by her beauty." That part . . . is true. Diya's breath hitches and I look at the anchor.
Everyone is suddenly blown away, the aw's that follow slightly annoys me but good we're right on track.
Diya actually giggles beside me. Giggles. Like she's proud of herself. Which she probably is. The menace.
Then, still smiling, she reaches over and lightly touches my forearm. The contact is brief. Casual. But somehow it feels far too warm.
"See?" she says to the anchor. "He's a man of few words, but he's actually very sweet."
I turn toward her. She finally looks back at me. Her cheeks are slightly pink from laughing. Her eyes are bright but there's a glint of amusement.
Victorious.
Happy.
For a second, the rest of the courtyard fades into the background. The cameras. The reporters. The audience. All of it. Gone.
There's only her. And that smile. My irritation doesn't disappear. Not completely. But it shifts into something else. Something heavier. Something far more dangerous.
Enjoy your victory, Trouble.
Because eventually these cameras are going to stop rolling. And when they do . . . You're going to pay for every single word.