44. MAGNIFICENT
DIYA
The curtains are drawn tightly across the bedroom windows, keeping the moonlight outside and leaving the room wrapped in soft darkness.
We're lying on the bed with our backs to each other. A stretch of cool silk sheets separates us, but my mind is still back at tonight's gala.
I keep staring at the wall, twisting the edge of the bedsheet between my fingers.
I can still hear Veeraj's voice. The way he stood in front of me. The way he defended me without thinking twice.
He walked away from one of the biggest political events of the year because someone insulted me.
I still don't know how to carry the weight of that. "You didn't have to do that," I whisper into the silence, my voice barely louder than a breath.
Behind me, the mattress shifts. I hear him turn toward me. "Do what?" he asks quietly. His voice is calm, but I know he already knows what I'm talking about. "You know exactly what."
I close my eyes for a second. "It was such an important event for you, Veeraj. The palace spent months preparing for it. You didn't have to throw everything away because of me."
He goes quiet. Then suddenly, his arm slides around my waist from behind and gently pulls me against him.
My back settles against his chest. His warmth surrounds me instantly. He lowers his face near my neck. "I didn't do it because of you," he says softly. "I did it because of him."
His voice turns firmer. "How dare he stand in front of me and disrespect my wife?"
My breath catches. Even after all this time, hearing those words still does something to my heart.
I slowly turn in his arms until we're facing each other.
One of my hands rests against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my palm.
"It's normal, Veeraj," I whisper. "It happens all the time.
" I force out a small smile that doesn't feel real.
"People look at me like that everywhere. I've gotten used to it."
I shrug lightly. "I'm . . . different to look at."
"It's expected."
His jaw tightens immediately. "Expected?" he repeats quietly. There's disbelief in his voice.
His hand comes up to cup my face. His thumb gently brushes across my cheek, making me look at him.
"No." He shakes his head. "Never say that again.
" His eyes don't leave mine. "You're beautiful, Diya.
" His voice is steady. Certain. "I noticed you the very first day I walked into your NGO.
" He smiles faintly. "You were arguing with someone, completely convinced you were right. "
A tiny laugh escapes me through the tears. "I was right."
"I know." His smile grows. "You usually are."
His thumb brushes lightly over one of the pale patches on my cheek. "I noticed your smile."
"The way you laugh."
"The way you care about every child there."
"And yes . . . " His gaze softens. "I noticed your skin too." He pauses. "But not the way you think."
His fingers slowly trace the edge of one of the vitiligo patches with incredible gentleness. "Every mark is different. No one else has yours."
He studies my face as though he's trying to memorize every detail. "It's like looking at a painting that exists only once." He kisses my forehead softly, "I could spend hours looking at you and still find something beautiful I missed before."
A sob catches in my throat. "You don't have to say all this just to make me feel better." My voice shakes. "You don't owe me comforting lies."
"I don't lie." The answer comes immediately. "I never have."
He leans a little closer until our foreheads almost touch.
"I'm saying it because I mean every word.
".He brushes another tear from my cheek.
"No one should have made you believe this was something you had to apologize for.
" He huffs, "No one should have made you think you were less because your skin looks different.
" His voice grows even softer. "I don't see something that needs to be hidden. "
"I see the woman I married." The room goes completely still. "And I am very grateful, no matter what circumstances brought us together, I am grateful I am your husband."
Neither of us speaks for several seconds. His thumb continues gently tracing my cheek. "So whenever you look in the mirror," he whispers, "I hope one day you'll see yourself the way I see you."
I can't stop the tears anymore. Before I can answer, he leans forward and kisses me.
Slowly. Softly. There's no urgency. Just warmth. Comfort. A promise.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. "I hope you never forget this," he murmurs. "Your husband thinks you're the most beautiful woman in every room you walk into."
A tear slips down my cheek onto the pillow. But this time it isn't because someone made me feel small . . . It's because someone finally makes me feel seen.
For twenty-four years, I've been the girl people stared at. The girl my father tried to hide. The girl who believed she would always have to explain herself.
Tonight—wrapped safely in Veeraj's arms—those old voices finally begin to fade.
I hold him a little tighter.
He kisses me again, slow and gentle, while the rest of the palace sleeps around us.
For the first time in my life . . . I don't feel like the girl who has to survive.