A PACT I DISLIKE
ANAMIKA
I've spent most of the morning trying to convince the two people in this room that I'm perfectly fine. I'm losing. Spectacularly. It's a little humiliating to discover that a five-year-old and the Maharaja of Devgarh make an alarmingly effective team when they decide to gang up on someone.
Every time I insist I'm feeling better, one of them gives me the exact same look—the one that says, nice try, we're not believing a word of that.
If someone had told me a year ago that I'd someday be sitting in a palace bedroom being fussed over this relentlessly, I would've laughed in their face.
I keep waiting for it to become uncomfortable. For that old instinct to return—that restless feeling that comes whenever someone tries to take care of me, the one that makes me want to insist I'm capable, that I can manage on my own, that I don't need help.
But it never comes. Instead . . . There's relief.
Quiet. Unexpected relief.
It settles somewhere deep inside me, so unfamiliar that I don't quite know what to do with it. Maybe that's what surprises me the most. Not that someone wants to take care of me. That I've become tired enough to finally let them.
Yuvaan disappeared about twenty minutes ago, announcing that he was bringing lunch himself because he wanted to "personally verify" that I actually ate it.
Apparently neither my word nor the kitchen staff's word is acceptable evidence anymore.
He refused to let anyone else bring the food. Something about not trusting me not to quietly feed it to someone else.
I’d rolled my eyes.
He ignored them completely.
Now, in his absence, Sara has appointed herself acting doctor. She climbs onto the bed and settles directly in front of me, scooting forward until our knees almost touch.
Then she studies my face with complete concentration. Tilting her head. Squinting thoughtfully. As though she's conducting a medical examination of national importance. "Do you feel better, Mumma?" The worry in her voice is small.
Careful.
Much older than five.
My heart squeezes.
I smile and gently lift my chin, letting her inspect me as thoroughly as she likes.
If looking at me helps convince her I'm truly okay, then she can stare for as long as she wants.
"Just a little weakness," I tell her softly.
"Nothing else." Before she can argue, I pull her into my arms. She comes willingly, wrapping herself around me with the wholehearted trust only children seem capable of.
"I promise," I murmur into her hair. "I'm okay. " She stays there quietly for a moment.
Then, still tucked against my shoulder, she says in a muffled voice, "Mister is really nice." I smile despite myself. "He didn't lie." She murmurs against me. "He took care of you while I was in school." Another tiny pause. "He really is nice, isn't he?"
I close my eyes for a second. Sara always smells like sunshine.
Crayons.
Baby shampoo.
And something else I can never describe except by calling it her.
The scent wraps itself around me as completely as her little arms do.
For years . . . She has been the place I returned to whenever life became too heavy.
No matter how exhausting the day had been .
. . One hug from her somehow made carrying it possible again.
I stroke her hair gently. "Yes," I whisper. "He is."
She pulls back suddenly. Too suddenly.
I know that expression.
Eyes narrowed.
Head tilted.
Mouth pursed.
It's the face she makes right before asking something capable of ruining everyone's peace. "Mumma?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you like Mister?"
I blink. "What?"
She waits patiently. Like she's asked whether I'd like another cup of tea. "I said . . . " she repeats slowly. " . . . do you like Mister?"
I actually feel heat climb into my cheeks. "What kind of question is that?"
"The normal kind." She shrugs. "So?"
"I . . . " Brilliant. Words. Where have all my words gone?
"I mean . . . " I wave one hand vaguely through the air.
"He's . . .. nice." She keeps staring. "I like him as .
. . " Think. Think quickly. " . . . well .
. . " This is going terribly. "He's a good person.
" Still staring. "I mean . . . " I let out a laugh that sounds painfully fake even to my own ears. "Pfft."
"No."
"Obviously not."
Silence.
Sara continues looking at me with the patient expression adults usually reserve for children who insist the moon follows them home.
Then she nods very slowly. "Okaaaay."
The word stretches suspiciously long. Not convinced. Not even a little. She's simply choosing to humour me. Wonderful. Even my five-year-old knows I'm lying. Honestly . . . I wouldn't have believed me either. That may have been the single worst attempt at denying feelings in recorded history.
So many years of lying to myself . . . And apparently I still can't make it convincing.
The bedroom door opens before I can embarrass myself any further.
Yuvaan walks in carrying a large tray balanced carefully between both hands.
The smell of fresh rotis immediately fills the room.
He sets the tray down on the table beside the bed.
Before either of us can say anything, Sara straightens importantly.
"Mister."
He looks at her. "Yes, Princess?"
"We need a new rule."
He raises one eyebrow. "A rule?" His eyes briefly flick toward me. I can practically see the question there.
What happened while I was gone?
Sara lifts one finger. "Mumma has to eat three meals every single day." A second finger joins the first. "If one of us is home . . . she eats with us." A third finger. "And if we're not home . . . she sends you a picture of her food."
She nods once. Satisfied. "So we know she actually ate it."
I stare at both of them. Then at Sara. Then back at Yuvaan. "This," I announce with great dignity, folding my arms across my chest, "is bullying."
"Proper bullying." I huff. "I hope both of you realise that."
Sara copies me immediately. Tiny arms folded. Tiny chin lifted. Entirely unapologetic. "I hardly ever get to bully Mumma." A wicked grin spreads across her face. "I'm enjoying this one."
Yuvaan laughs. Really laughs. The sound fills the room so naturally that I find myself smiling before I even realise I'm doing it.
He reaches over absentmindedly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face.
His fingers skim lightly across my cheek.
The touch lasts barely a second. Far too brief.
Entirely innocent. And yet . . . My heart forgets how to behave.
I inhale a little too sharply. Hopefully neither of them notices. Unfortunately . . . I glance toward the dressing table mirror.
Sara catches my reflection.
Our eyes meet through the glass. One tiny corner of her mouth lifts.
Oh no. She noticed.
Traitor. Absolute traitor.
Yuvaan either doesn't see it . . . Or very kindly pretends he doesn't. "We're only doing this," he says quietly, still looking at me, "because we want you healthy." His voice softens even more. "If bullying becomes necessary . . . " He shrugs, " . . . then we'll bully you."
I shake my head. "You've both become impossible."
"I know," he says with absolutely no remorse. "I've accepted it."
I look from him . . . to Sara . . . and back again.
My daughter, looking absurdly pleased with herself for inventing a brand-new household law.
The man sitting beside her, completely united with her against me without the slightest hesitation.
Kairav had told me yesterday what happened in the council meeting.
How Yuvaan stood before every senior member and made it very clear that anyone insulting me would be insulting the royal family itself.
I'd pretended it hadn't affected me.
It had.
More than I wanted to admit. Now I look at him sitting here—laughing with my daughter . . . creating meal schedules for me . . . watching me with that same quiet concern that's been constant ever since yesterday—a strange thought settles gently inside me.
I don't think I have any defenses left. Not really.
I surrendered pieces of them one after another without even noticing.
Somewhere between the rose outside Sara's school.
The breakfast he'd cooked with her. The bookshop.
The council meeting. The way he held me this morning when I finally stopped pretending I was fine. I don't know exactly when it happened.
Only that sitting here now . . . I can't seem to find the walls anymore.
I lift both hands dramatically. "Fine. You win." I sigh with exaggerated suffering. "I agree to three proper meals." I point accusingly at Sara. "And photographic evidence whenever demanded."
She lets out a triumphant squeal loud enough to shake the room. "I knew you'd say yes!"
Of course she did. Apparently no one in this palace has any faith in my ability to resist them anymore. Least of all me. I look toward Yuvaan. He's smiling. Not the polite smile everyone else gets. Not the careful Maharaja smile. Just . . . Yuvaan.
Soft.
Warm.
Quietly happy.
The sight of it catches somewhere deep inside my chest.
I have to look away before it lingers long enough to undo every careful promise I've made myself since coming back to Devgarh.