34. TASTE OF CARE
DIYA
I pace around the marble bathroom, splashing cold water on my face for what has to be the tenth time.
The fever is finally gone. My body feels normal again. Unfortunately . . . My memory is working perfectly too. I squeeze my eyes shut with a groan. Last week was one long parade of embarrassment.
I threw a full-blown tantrum. I told Veeraj to leave me alone. Then I practically asked him to hold me while I slept.
I press both hands against the sink and stare at my reflection. "Fantastic, Diya," I mutter. "What a graceful display."
The worst part isn't even my fever. It's remembering him quietly feeding me soup, checking my temperature, and saying, “You have absolutely no right to torture my wife. No one does, not even you.”
The words replay in my head all over again. I let out another groan and cover my face.
I need a distraction. A good one. Something that keeps me from replaying last week, especially yesterday every five minutes. That's when an idea pops into my head. I'll cook for him. Nothing dramatic.
Just lunch. I'll pack it myself and take it to his office. It's a simple thank-you. That's all.
The plan sounds perfect . . . Until one very important question stops me.
I blink. " . . . What does Veeraj even like to eat?"
I slowly sit down on the ottoman, suddenly feeling ridiculous.
We've been living together for weeks. We argue almost every day.
I know exactly how he takes his tea. I know the sound of his footsteps in the hallway.
I know the look he gives me before he's about to give up on me. But I don't know his favourite food.
"You're doing great, Diya." I can't exactly walk into his study and ask him. That would ruin the surprise completely. With another sigh, I pull out my phone and call Sitara.
She answers almost immediately. "Diya!" she chirps. "How are you feeling? Poorvi said you turned into an absolute menace last week. Did Veeraj bhai-sa survive?"
"I'm fine," I mumble. "And yes . . . unfortunately for him, he survived."
She laughs. "So what's up? And I am sorry I couldn't call you."
"Ah, you're fine." My chest tightens, how are the Shekhawats concerned about me over a simple viral fever.
I hesitate for a second before lowering my voice.
"I need a favour." I quickly add before she can tell every soul about it.
"But if you tell Vihaan about this, I will personally replace every bottle of your hair serum with coconut oil. "
Sitara gasps dramatically. "Oh, this sounds interesting. Tell me everything."
I take a deep breath. "I want to make lunch for Veeraj."
There's complete silence. Then—She bursts into laughter. Loud laughter. The kind that makes it impossible to speak. "Oh my God! Our Ice Prince is getting a homemade tiffin! This is the happiest day of my life!"
"Diya . . . " she wheezes between laughs. " . . . you like him."
"I do not!"
"You absolutely do."
"I am hanging up."
"Okay! Okay!" she says quickly, still laughing. "I'm done."
I wait. Barely. "So?"
She clears her throat. "Bhai sa loves South Indian food." I can hear her smile through the phone, "He'll eat anything without complaining, but if you make Mysore masala dosa with crispy medu vada and good coconut chutney . . . "
She laughs again. " . . . he'll be very happy."
"Our head chef makes the batter every few days, so you won't have to start from scratch." A smile slowly spreads across my face. "That's actually perfect."
"I know."
"And Diya?"
"Hmm?"
"Don't forget to pack extra chutney."
"He always asks for more."
I laugh softly. "Thanks."
"Anytime. And don't worry," she says in a teasing voice. "Your secret is safe with me."
"I don't believe you."
"You shouldn't." Before she can tease me again, I quickly end the call. I tuck my phone into my pocket and head straight for the palace kitchen.
South Indian food. Perfect. Simple. Comforting.
It somehow suits him.
I roll up my sleeves, tie my hair into a messy bun, and walk inside with a new sense of purpose. If the Stone Prince insists on taking care of me . . . Then today . . . It's my turn to take care of him.