43. WORTHY
DIYA
The VIP enclosure at the center of the pavilion is everything I usually hate. Heavy velvet curtains. Gold-framed mirrors stretching to the ceiling. Crystal chandeliers. Fresh white lilies flown in from somewhere expensive.
Normally, I'd spend the next twenty minutes wondering how much money was wasted decorating one room.
Tonight . . . I barely notice any of it.
Because all I can think about is Veeraj's hand resting against the bare skin of my lower back. His palm is warm and steady, guiding me through the crowd without letting go for even a second.
Every time his fingers move slightly against my skin, a shiver runs up my spine.
My heart still hasn't recovered from the kiss we shared behind the marble pillar a few minutes ago.
I can still feel it.
The way he looked at me. The way he asked before kissing me. The way everything between us quietly changed.
I steal another glance at him as we walk.
He's completely at ease here. His black bandhgala fits him perfectly, making his broad shoulders look even broader. He walks through the room with calm confidence, greeting ministers, diplomats, and business leaders like he's done it his entire life.
People naturally make space for him. They listen when he speaks.
And I can't help smiling a little as I watch him.
He's handsome. Ridiculously handsome.
We stop in front of the Chief Minister. The older man smiles politely before extending his hand toward Veeraj.
The two of them exchange greetings and begin talking about development projects and state funding.
I try very hard to pay attention. I fail miserably. Instead, I find myself listening to Veeraj's voice. That deep, calm voice somehow makes even government discussions sound interesting.
Then he turns slightly toward me. "Chief Minister," he says, pride quietly slipping into his tone, "I'd like you to meet my wife . . . Diya Goyal."
My heart skips. Not because of the title. Because of the way he says my wife. Like he's proud of it. I step forward with a polite smile and extend my hand.
For one brief second, I think everything is perfectly fine.
Then I see it.
The Chief Minister's eyes move from my face to my hand. To the pale patches of vitiligo on my skin. His expression changes almost instantly.
It's subtle. A tiny pause. A slight tightening around his mouth.
Then instead of shaking my hand . . . He quietly pulls his own back. The movement is small. But it feels enormous. My smile freezes. Something heavy settles inside my chest.
I've seen this look before. Too many times. People who think I'm contagious. People who think touching me is somehow dangerous. People who look at me with curiosity . . . or pity . . . or disgust.
For one painful moment, I'm a little girl again. Standing alone. Being told to stay away from everyone else. I tighten my grip around my clutch.
It's fine.
I'm used to this.
I'll make a joke.
I'll save the situation.
The last thing I want is for Veeraj's event to become a scene because of me.
I open my mouth. Before I can say a single word . . . My hand is gently pulled back.
I blink in surprise. Veeraj has already stepped beside me. His arm slips firmly around my waist. The warmth in his touch is steady. Protective.
I look up at him. His face is calm. Too calm. But his eyes . . . I've never seen them like this before. They're cold . . . sharp. Filled with a quiet anger that sends a chill through the room. The conversations around us slowly die down.
Everyone is watching. Veeraj doesn't seem to notice. Or care. He looks directly at the Chief Minister.
His voice is low and controlled. "You don't have to worry about shaking her hand." A long silence follows. Then he adds, without breaking eye contact, "You were never worthy of touching my wife anyway."
The room goes completely still. The Chief Minister's face loses all color.
Nobody says a word. Veeraj doesn't stop there.
He takes my hand in his. Not loosely. Not for appearances. He laces our fingers together. Proudly.
"If someone cannot show my wife the basic respect she deserves," he says evenly, "then they don't deserve the privilege of standing beside her."
His thumb brushes lightly across the back of my hand. His voice softens just enough for only me to hear. "You never have to earn your place beside me, Diya."
My eyes instantly fill with tears.
He notices.
Without caring who is watching, he gently wipes one away with his thumb.
Then he looks back at the Chief Minister one last time. "I'd rather walk away from every political alliance in this room than allow anyone to insult my wife." His words leave no room for discussion.
He turns toward me. "Come."
Just one word.
Gentle.
Certain.
His arm settles around my waist again as he leads me toward the exit.
Nobody tries to stop us. Nobody dares. The room stays silent behind us.
He smiles gently as we step out. Then leans forward and kisses my forehead. "Let's go home, Trouble."
For the first time in my life . . . Someone chooses me.
Not despite my scars. Not out of pity. Not because they have to.
But because, to him . . . I am worth more than an entire kingdom.