30. TRADITIONS
DIYA
This is it.
Mission Three of Operation: Break the Stone Prince is officially underway, and I'm standing in the palace kitchen with a huge container of table salt in my hands, feeling like an evil genius.
After the complete disaster that was my clay-and-water attack at the NGO, and after the very inconvenient emotional breakdown during our midnight ice cream trip, I need a win.
A proper one. I need to see Veeraj Singh Shekhawat react. Just once. Even if it's only for a second.
The palace's head cook—who has probably cooked for three generations of Shekhawats—watches me with deep suspicion as I scoop three generous spoonfuls of salt into a mug of freshly brewed black tea.
"This much, Kunwarani sa?" he asks carefully.
"Trust the process," I reply with complete confidence.
He doesn't look convinced. Neither would I, honestly.
I stir the tea until every grain disappears into the dark liquid. It looks perfectly normal. Completely innocent. Which makes it even better. I grin to myself.
Nobody can drink something this salty without making a face. Nobody.
He's going to cough. Or choke. Or at least grimace.
Today . . . today I’ll finally win.
Balancing the silver tray carefully, I make my way through the palace corridors toward Veeraj's study.
The closer I get, the more nervous I become.
Please don't fail again, Diya.
Just once.
Give me one crack in that ridiculously calm face.
I push the heavy oak door open with my elbow. Just as expected, he's sitting behind his large desk, completely focused on a set of architectural drawings spread in front of him.
His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing his forearms.
For some reason, my eyes briefly stop on the faded scar across his knuckles before I quickly force myself to look away.
Focus.
Poison tea first.
Admire your husband later.
"Brought you some tea, Your Highness," I announce cheerfully as I place the tray beside his papers. He doesn't look up immediately.
He finishes writing one last note before finally saying, "I didn't ask for tea."
"I know."
I fold my arms.."Consider it a kind gesture from your kind, loving wife."
He finally looks at me. Then at the mug. Then back at me. His eyes narrow just a little.
He knows.
I can tell he knows I'm planning something. But instead of asking questions, he simply reaches for the mug.
"No pressure," I say, trying to sound casual.
"It's . . . a special blend."
He lifts one eyebrow. "Very memorable."
Without another word, he raises the mug to his lips and takes a large sip.
I stop breathing.
Come on . . . Any second now.
A cough. A splutter. Anything.
Instead . . . He swallows. Calmly. He places the mug back onto the saucer with a quiet clink.
Not a single expression changes. Nothing. He simply looks at me.
My mouth slowly falls open.
What? How? Does this man not have taste buds? Is he secretly part camel?
The silence stretches until he finally speaks. "In Turkey," he says quietly, leaning back in his chair, "there's an old wedding tradition."
I blink. " . . . What?"
"The bride serves the groom coffee with far too much salt." His eyes stay on mine. "If he drinks it without complaining, it's meant to show that he's willing to accept whatever hardships marriage brings."
He pauses for a moment. Then looks down at the mug before meeting my eyes again. "Your tea is . . . exceptionally salty, Diya."
A tiny pause. "But I have a high tolerance for hardship." Heat rushes straight into my face. "And I am willing to face all hardships in this marriage . . . especially the one you are going to throw my way."
He knew. He knew the entire time. Instead of calling me childish. Instead of exposing my prank . . . He somehow turns it into something that leaves me completely speechless.
I don't know what to do with that. Suddenly very aware of how embarrassed I am, I take an awkward step backward.
A mistake. My heel catches the leg of the armchair behind me.
"Oh!" I lose my balance.
For one terrifying second, I prepare to hit the marble floor.
I never do. Before I can fall, Veeraj is already moving. One second he's behind the desk. The next, his arm is firmly around my waist.
He pulls me toward him with surprising ease until I crash lightly against his chest.
The world stops. One hand is still around my waist. The other steadies my shoulder. My fingers instinctively grab the front of his shirt.
I can smell cedar and the faint scent of his cologne. He's breathing a little harder than before.
So am I. Neither of us moves. We're standing far too close.
His eyes search mine for a long moment before his brows lift slightly.
"Do you always fall like this, Trouble?" he asks softly. His voice is quieter than usual. Almost gentle.
My brain has completely stopped working.
Thankfully, my mouth hasn't. "Yes," I whisper, unable to look away from him. " . . . if you're always there to catch me." The words leave my mouth before I can think.
The teasing smile I expect never comes.
Instead . . . Something changes. Right in front of me. A slow flush climbs up his neck. Then reaches his cheeks.
Veeraj Singh Shekhawat . . . The man who never reacts . . . Is actually blushing.
His grip around my waist tightens ever so slightly. His eyes don't leave mine. "I will." His voice is steady. "You're my wife, Diya." He says it so simply. So honestly. "I'll always catch you."
My heart forgets how to beat properly. Everything around us disappears, none of it matters anymore. All I can think about is the warmth of his hand around my waist, the colour on his cheeks . . . And the impossible realization that Operation: Break the Stone Prince has finally worked.
The only problem . . . I'm the one who feels completely undone.