42. CAN I?
VEERAJ
The heritage pavilion is filled with polished white marble, grand arches, and endless conversations that echo through the hall.
State charity galas have never been my favorite. Every handshake feels planned. Every smile is watched by the press standing behind the velvet ropes. I have spent years treating events like this as another royal responsibility.
Tonight feels different. Because Diya is beside me.
A thought crosses my mind, and I almost laugh at myself. If attending these boring events means I get to see her like this, maybe they aren't so bad after all.
She looks breathtaking.
Instead of her usual kurtis, she's wearing a deep crimson satin jumpsuit that fits her perfectly before falling gracefully to the floor.
The rich color makes the pale patches of vitiligo on her hands and neck stand out beautifully.
Her hair is pinned into a soft updo, leaving her face completely visible.
She walks through the crowd with her chin held high. People look at her. She notices. She simply doesn't care. And somehow, that makes me admire her even more.
When we finally step away from the crowd and into the quieter side gallery, I move a little closer.
The noise of the party fades behind us. I lean down slightly. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight, my wife?" I murmur near her ear.
She freezes.
Then she slowly looks up at me with wide eyes. "Veeraj!" she whispers, completely flustered. "What are you doing?" Her gaze darts toward the crowd. "There are reporters everywhere."
"So?" A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
I take one small step closer until she's standing against one of the marble pillars.
"Since when is flirting with my own wife a crime, Trouble?"
She opens her mouth to answer. Nothing comes out.
I had only meant to tease her. I wanted to watch her argue with me. To hear one of her dramatic speeches.
Instead . . . The moment I really look at her, everything changes.
The sounds of the gala disappear. My eyes fall to her lips before finding hers again. She's already looking back at me. Something inside me quietly gives in. I don't want to hide behind jokes anymore.
I don't want to pretend this is still just an arrangement.
I want her.
I slowly lift one hand and rest it against the pillar beside her, leaving enough space for her to move away if she wants to.
She doesn't. "Diya . . . " My voice comes out softer than I expect.
I search her face for even the smallest sign that she's uncomfortable. There isn't one. "Can I kiss you?"
For once . . . She doesn't tease me. She doesn't change the subject. She doesn't hide behind another joke either. Her eyes drift to my lips before meeting mine again. A tiny smile touches her face. "Yes," she whispers.
It's barely louder than a breath. But it's enough.
I close the distance between us. My lips meet hers gently. Slowly. There's no rush.
No audience. No palace. No politics. Just her.
She melts into the kiss, and for a few quiet seconds, the rest of the world disappears. When I finally pull away, I rest my forehead lightly against hers. My thumb brushes softly across her warm cheek.
She looks just as dazed as I feel. I never imagined I'd become someone who steals kisses behind marble pillars.
I've spent twenty-eight years keeping people at arm's length. Avoiding attention.
Avoiding feelings. Avoiding moments exactly like this. But standing here with my wife . . . None of those old rules seem to matter anymore.
I smile to myself.
For the first time in a very long time . . . I don't care who's watching. Because somewhere along the way, without even realizing it . . . I stop protecting my heart from her.
I simply give it to her.