DEALS
YUVAAN
I'm barely three pages into a contract review when there's a knock on my study door. I don't look up immediately, absently signing the margin of one page before saying, "Come in."
The head maid steps inside, but instead of speaking straight away, she hesitates. That alone is enough to pull my attention away from the file. She has worked in this palace for years. She doesn't interrupt my working hours unless something genuinely requires it.
I set my pen down. "What is it?"
"Hukum" she begins carefully, wringing the end of her dupatta between her fingers. "Anamika didi hasn't come down for lunch." A strange uneasiness stirs inside me.
"She wasn't feeling well?"
"I don't know." She shakes her head. "I knocked twice. She isn't answering the door."
Everything inside me goes still. For one suspended second, the room seems unnaturally quiet.
Then my chair scrapes sharply against the floor.
I'm already on my feet before she's finished speaking.
I don't remember leaving the study. I don't remember crossing the corridors.
One moment I'm standing beside my desk. The next I'm outside our bedroom, my hand already pushing the door open before I even think to knock.
The door swings inward. My heart drops. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the mattress so tightly her knuckles have turned white. Her body sways ever so slightly, as though the room refuses to stay still beneath her.
Her face—God. She's pale. Not the ordinary kind of tired pale. The frightening kind. The colour has drained completely from her skin, leaving behind a dull grey undertone that wasn't there this morning.
"Daisy." I'm beside her in two strides. My hands settle instinctively on her shoulders before she can tip forward. "Look at me."
She blinks slowly. Her eyes struggle to focus. "I'm okay . . . " she whispers.
No.
She isn't.
Not even close.
"What happened?" My voice comes out lower than intended, tight with something I don't bother hiding. "Talk to me."
Her lips part, but no words come. Instead, she lifts one trembling hand and points weakly toward the bedside table.
"The drawer . . . " I pull it open immediately.
Inside, beneath a folded shawl, sits a small black pouch.
I take it out and hand it to her. Only then do I notice my own hands aren't steady anymore. She fumbles with the zip once.
Twice.
Finally manages to open it.
Inside is a glucose monitor.
A lancet.
Test strips.
Everything arranged with the practiced precision of someone who's repeated this routine countless times.
Alone.
The thought lands somewhere unpleasant inside me. She inserts the strip into the monitor with movements so familiar they don't require thought anymore.
Pricks her finger. A tiny bead of blood appears. She doesn't even flinch. She touches the strip to it. Then waits while the tiny machine counts down. The silence feels endless.
"My sugar is low," she says quietly after a moment, glancing at the screen. She says it so matter-of-factly it almost sounds routine. "It's okay."
Okay?
I stare at her. She's barely sitting upright. Her breathing is shallow. Her hands are still shaking. Nothing about this feels okay.
"Can you . . . " She swallows. "Can you get the chocolate?"
I blink. "What?"
"It's . . . in the drawer."
She closes her eyes briefly before continuing. "Wrapped in foil."
I don't waste another second. I search through the drawer until I find exactly what she's described. A small chocolate bar wrapped in silver foil. My fingers clumsily tear it open. I place it carefully into her hand. She breaks off a small piece. Then another. Eating slowly.
Patiently.
Like this is a ritual she's performed hundreds of times before. I watch every bite. Every swallow. Every tiny change in her face. The colour returns painfully slowly. Minute by minute.
Her breathing steadies.
Her shoulders relax.
Only then do I realise I've been holding my own breath.
The palace doctor arrives barely five minutes later. By then she's sitting straighter, already trying to wave the entire incident away. "I'm fine now," she insists before he even begins examining her. "There was no need to call anyone."
I don't even look at her. "Please examine her," I tell him. My voice comes out firmer than intended. I don't apologise for it. The doctor checks everything carefully.
Pulse. Blood pressure. Blood sugar.
He asks a few quiet questions. "When did you last eat?"
She hesitates. My stomach sinks. " . . . Breakfast."
The doctor looks up. "You haven't eaten since breakfast?" She gives the smallest nod.
"I got busy."
Busy.
That's the explanation.
He sighs gently. "You cannot skip meals, especially with diabetes."
The word lands heavily inside the room. I look at her. She doesn't meet my eyes. The doctor continues speaking.
Low blood sugar.
Regular meals.
Medication.
Rest.
A follow-up appointment in a few days. I hear every word.
And somehow none of them seem as loud as the single thought repeating in my head.
She never told me. Not once. When the doctor finally leaves, silence settles over the room again.
She busies herself folding the chocolate wrapper into neat little squares.
Anything to avoid looking at me. I stand near the window for a long moment, trying very hard to calm the storm building inside me.
It doesn't work.
I turn back to her.
"Why?"
She keeps staring at the wrapper. "I forgot."
"No." My voice is quiet.
Too quiet.
"You forgot to eat."
She nods faintly. "I was working."
"You know what happens when you skip meals."
Another nod. "So why?"
Still nothing. I take a slow breath. "Why didn't you tell me you have diabetes?" This time she does look up. Only for a second.
Then her gaze slips away again. "Because .
. . " She presses her lips together. "It's not your concern.
" The words hit harder than they should.
Not because they're cruel. Because she genuinely believes them.
"You've already done enough for me." She speaks quickly now, as though she's been holding the sentences back for days. "You're paying Sara's school fees."
"You gave us a home."
"You've done more than anyone ever had to."
"I don't want to keep asking you for things."
Something twists painfully inside my chest. She still thinks like she's alone. Still measures every kindness against an invisible debt. Still believes accepting help comes with a price.
"Daisy." Her name leaves my mouth softer this time. She finally looks at me. "What you're saying . . . " I stop for a moment, searching for words that don't sound like anger. " . . . hurts."
Confusion flickers across her face. She hadn't expected that answer. I walk over and sit beside her. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Close enough that she can't pretend this conversation belongs to someone else. "When did we start keeping score?"
She doesn't answer. "You keep talking about school fees."
"A job."
"Money."
"As though I'm maintaining some account book in my head."
She shakes her head immediately. "I didn't mean—"
"I know." I take her hand before she can pull it away. It's still slightly cold. I wrap both of mine around it. "You don't owe me anything." My thumb brushes gently across her knuckles.
"Not money."
"Not gratitude."
"Not explanations."
"Nothing."
She watches me silently. "You walked back into my life carrying that tray . . . " I smile faintly despite myself. "Terrified."
"Trying so hard to pretend you didn't know me."
"You gave me a family back that day." My throat tightens unexpectedly. "I hadn't realised how empty my life had become until the two of you walked back into it."
Her eyes glisten. I keep going before she can interrupt. "Not when you agreed to marry me. The moment I saw you standing in my study. I already had more than I'd had in years."
She looks down at our joined hands. I tighten my hold just slightly. "Your pain has always been my concern." The words come quietly.
Steadily.
"It was when we were children."
"It is now."
"It always will be."
She blinks rapidly. A tear clings stubbornly to her lashes. "So don't hide behind your pride when you're hurting." I lift her hand slightly between us. "Not with me. Never with me."
Silence settles again. But this one feels different. Softer. Less guarded. "If you're falling . . . " I say after a while. . . . .let me catch you." A faint, helpless smile touches my mouth. "That's the only deal I've ever wanted with you."
She stares at me for a long time. The way she used to when we were younger. Studying my face as though trying to read the truth hidden beneath everything I wasn't saying. I watch the resistance leave her little by little. Her shoulders relax first. Then her jaw. Then the stubborn set of her mouth.
Finally . . . Without saying a single word. She leans forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Until her forehead comes to rest against my shoulder. I close my eyes. One arm slips around her without hesitation. Holding her exactly as she is. Not trying to fix anything. Not asking questions. Just . . . holding her.
Her breathing is still uneven against my collar. Mine probably isn't much better. For a long while neither of us speaks. The room remains completely silent except for the quiet rhythm of our breathing. I know this doesn't mean every wall she's built over the last eight years has disappeared.
Tomorrow she'll probably put half of them back. Maybe all of them. Habit is difficult to outrun. Pain even more so.
But today—for one brief moment—she let herself lean on me.
She let me carry even the smallest piece of the weight she'd insisted on bearing alone for far too long.
And somehow . . . That feels like the most precious agreement we've ever made.