24. THERMAL DYNAMICS
VEERAJ
The heavy oak doors haven't even fully closed before I turn to look at her.
The silence in the corridor is a sharp contrast to the noise we just left behind. For the last two hours, I've been forced to sit under bright studio lights while Diya happily turned me into a clumsy, lovesick fool who apparently can't walk past a pillar without crashing into it.
"A wall, Diya?" I ask, my voice low as I walk deeper into the sitting room, loosening the stiff collar of my achkan. "A pillar? That's honestly the best story you could come up with?"
"Oh, please," she shoots back without missing a beat. I hear the soft swish of her peach saree as she follows me inside. "You should be thanking me. Did you see the anchor's face? She went from looking for a royal scandal to wanting our love story. I saved both of us out there, Veeraj."
"You made me look like an idiot on national television." I stop walking and turn around so suddenly she almost walks into me.
The afternoon light filters through the curtains, filling the room with a soft golden glow.
She stands a few feet away, chin lifted stubbornly, breathing a little harder after keeping up with me.
The sweet, graceful princess she played in front of the cameras is gone.
Standing in front of me is the same Diya I've known from the beginning—stubborn, loud, impossible, and ready to argue over absolutely anything.
"I made you look human," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "Trust me, that was a huge improvement over the statue routine you had going on. You answered every question with one word. If I hadn't stepped in, tomorrow's headline would've been 'Princess Married to a Royal Ice Sculpture.'"
"I am a prince, not an entertainer," I mutter, taking one slow step toward her.
"Clearly," she says immediately, refusing to move back. Instead, she steps closer too, narrowing her eyes. "Because comedians are actually funny. You just have an ego the size of Mewar Fort."
We're standing far too close. I realize it a second too late.
The faint scent of vanilla reaches me again—the same perfume she'd been wearing last night—and somehow it cuts through every irritated thought in my head. My eyes drift over her face before I can stop them. The light flush spreading across her cheeks.
The stubborn set of her mouth. The mehendi still decorating her hands. The tiny strand of hair that has escaped from behind her ear.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don't lose my temper. I don't let people get under my skin. I've spent years being the calm one in every room, the person who never reacts. And yet this woman only has to look at me for my entire mind to stop cooperating.
She irritates me more than anyone I've ever met. Half the time I want to argue with her. The other half . . . My gaze drops to her lips for just a second.
Too long.
Long enough for me to notice them pressing together as she waits for my next argument. Long enough for her to notice where I'm looking. The teasing disappears from her face.
Her eyes lift slowly to mine. The air between us changes. The argument is still there. But now there's something else mixed into it.
Something heavier.
Something neither of us seems to know what to do with. "Veeraj . . . " she says quietly.
My name barely comes out above a whisper.
I don't answer.
Instead, I take one final step forward until there's almost no space left between us.
Without thinking, I place one hand against the carved wooden sideboard behind her.
Not touching her. Just trapping her there with nowhere to go.
I lean down slightly until we're almost at eye level.
Her breathing becomes uneven. I can hear it.
Her fingers tighten around the pleats of her saree. Her eyes don't leave mine.
I know that heartbeat. I've heard it before. Fast. Uneven. The same rhythm from the night outside her house. The same one from our first night sleeping together.
"Next time you decide to rewrite history, Trouble," I murmur, my voice barely louder than a whisper, "pick a story where I don't lose my balance."
I lean just a fraction closer. "Because right now . . . " My eyes stay locked on hers. " . . . I'm the one who's completely steady."
She forgets to answer. For the first time since I've known her, Diya has absolutely nothing to say. She simply stares at me, cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink, her breathing quick and shallow.
The silence stretches. Every sensible part of me tells me to step back. To put distance between us. To stop whatever this is before it becomes something neither of us is ready for.
Because the urge to close that last inch between us is becoming painfully real.
I don't understand it.
I don't want to understand it.
She challenges everything I believe in. She argues with me constantly. She refuses to listen. She is chaos wrapped in sunshine. And somehow . . . somehow I can't seem to look away.
With more effort than I'd like to admit, I push myself upright and take a slow step back. Cool air slips between us again. The spell breaks.
Diya lets out a shaky breath, almost as though she'd forgotten she was allowed to breathe.
She looks at me for another second, completely flustered, before letting out an annoyed huff.
Without saying a word, she turns sharply, her peach saree swirling behind her as she marches into the dressing room.
The door slams shut.
The sound echoes through the sitting room.
I stay exactly where I am. Hands slipping into my pockets, I stare at the closed door for a long moment.
My pulse is still racing. My breathing is still uneven. I rub the back of my neck with a quiet sigh, trying to get rid of the warmth lingering there.
It doesn't help.
I am in serious trouble.