57. PORTRAIT
VEERAJ
The morning sun pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the palace sunroom, scattering warm light across the white marble floor.
For generations, the Shekhawat family has followed one tradition without fail. Every married couple sits for a formal oil painting that is later placed in the grand gallery alongside their ancestors.
Growing up in these quiet palace halls, walking past those serious portraits every day, I never imagined my own painting would hang there one day. I had always believed marriage was another responsibility—something built on logic, duty, and legacy.
Then Diya walked into my life and proved just how wrong I was.
Now, standing beside the artist's easel, I don't care about tradition.
I only care about the woman standing a few feet away from me.
"If you keep glaring at the painter's empty stool like that, Veeraj," Diya says, trying to adjust the stubborn pleats of her saree, "the poor man is going to run all the way back to Delhi before he even opens his paint box."
I look up.
She is wearing an emerald green silk saree that catches the morning light beautifully. The rich color makes her skin glow, and the pale patches of vitiligo along her neck and hands look even more striking against the fabric.
She is absolutely breathtaking.
She is also losing a battle with her saree.
She lets out an annoyed sigh as she tries to tuck the pleats in again. "I swear this saree is plotting against me. It has officially declared war."
I can't help smiling.
"The painter is being paid an impressive amount today, Trouble," I reply as I walk toward her. "I'm sure he can survive one intimidating look from his client."
She looks up just as I reach her. Without asking, I gently move her hands away from her waist.
"I was fixing that."
"No," I say calmly. "You were fighting it."
"I was winning."
"You were negotiating."
"I was absolutely winning."
I raise an eyebrow. "The saree disagrees."
She rolls her eyes dramatically. "I liked you better when you barely spoke."
"You say that every day, at least once."
"And yet you keep getting more talkative."
"Marriage has had unexpected side effects."
A laugh escapes her before she can stop it.
"There it is," I murmur.
"What?"
"My favorite sound."
Her cheeks instantly turn pink. "You flirt entirely too much these days."
"I've been making up for thirty years."
She opens her mouth to argue again, but I have already started fixing the pleats.
My fingers carefully tuck the silk into place.
When I smooth the fabric near her waist, she inhales sharply. "Veeraj. . . " she whispers. "We are in the middle of the palace."
"I noticed."
"The staff is literally outside."
"They're serving tea."
"They also have eyes."
"I would certainly hope so."
She lets out an exasperated groan. "You are insane."
"I've heard that from a very reliable source."
"And who would that be?"
"My wife."
I finish adjusting the saree before taking a small step back to admire my work. "There."
She looks down. "Oh . . . "
A surprised smile spreads across her face. "That's actually perfect."
"I know."
She narrows her eyes. "You sounded entirely too proud of yourself."
"I deserve to be."
She folds her arms. "You tucked in six pleats."
"I rescued six pleats."
"There is a difference."
"There absolutely is." I shake my head, unable to stop smiling.
"I should've made you do this from the beginning."
"You still can."
Her eyebrows lift. "Careful, Kunwar Sa. If you become too useful, I'll make you wear matching sarees with me."
"I draw the line there."
"You surrender already?"
"I negotiate."
She laughs again, and I swear the entire room becomes brighter.
The sound settles somewhere deep inside me.
For so many years, silence was enough.
Now . . . Her laughter feels like home.
I reach up and gently tuck a loose curl behind her ear.
"You know," I say quietly, "the painter is going to have a difficult job today."
"Oh?"
"He'll never be able to capture what I see."
She blinks. "And what exactly do you see?"
"My favorite person."
Her teasing smile softens. "That's unfair."
"I haven't even started."
I lightly brush my thumb across the back of her hand.
"I see the woman who gave abandoned children a home.
" My eyes soften, "The woman who somehow convinced my family to laugh louder.
" Her eyes glisten, "The woman who made this palace feel alive.
" My lips curve up in a smile, "And the woman who walked into a marriage that began as an arrangement .
. . and somehow turned it into the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. "
Her eyes immediately fill with tears. "You're doing it again."
"What?"
"Making me cry before breakfast."
"I'd rather make you smile."
"You do."
She reaches for my hand and intertwines our fingers. "You do both."
For a long moment, neither of us says anything.
We simply stand there in the sunlight.
The palace suddenly doesn't feel so grand.
Not compared to this.
The artist finally walks into the sunroom carrying a large wooden paint case.
He stops the moment he sees us.
"Oh . . . "
He clears his throat awkwardly. "My apologies, Your Highnesses. Should I . . . come back?"
Before I can answer, Diya smiles innocently. "Please do."
I look down at her.
She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
"I was enjoying that conversation."
"So was I." She agrees.
"Then why invite him in?"
"Because unlike someone," she says, looking directly at me, "I actually want this portrait finished before sunset."
I lean closer. "So practical."
"Somebody in this marriage has to be."
"I strongly disagree."
"You would."
"I married an executive director."
"And I married a prince who cannot stop flirting."
"I fail to see the problem."
She shakes her head, laughing under her breath. "You know what the funny part is?"
"What?"
"When we first got married, I thought posing beside you for a painting would be the hardest part."
"And now?"
She smiles up at me with so much warmth that my chest tightens. "Now I'm worried the poor artist won't know how to paint the way you look at me."
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I lift her hand and press a slow kiss against her knuckles.
"He doesn't have to."
She tilts her head. "Why not?"
"Because that look isn't for history." I hold her gaze. "It's only for you."
Her breath catches.
The artist coughs politely from across the room. "If the royal couple has quite finished making my job impossible . . . "
Diya laughs, covering her face for a second.
"We're coming."
As we walk toward the easel together, our fingers remain intertwined.
Maybe this portrait will hang in the grand gallery for generations. Maybe our grandchildren will walk past it one day.
But none of that matters as much as the woman walking beside me.
Because paintings preserve faces.
She is the one who gives my life its color.