Chapter 21 The warmest place
The warmest place
DHRUV
She’s been invisible all day.
Not in the way people usually mean it—no, worse.
Sitara is the kind of presence you feel.
Even when she’s quiet, she exists loudly in my awareness.
The soft scratch of her pencil somewhere in the library.
The way she curls into the window seat with a book, knees tucked under her, hair falling into her eyes.
I take the longer route to meetings on purpose, pretending it’s efficient when it’s really just an excuse to pass by wherever she might be.
I tell myself it’s normal.
I tell myself it’s not strange to want to see your wife.
But today—nothing.
The library is empty. The sunroom is quiet. Her usual corner by the balcony abandoned, the cushion still fluffed like it’s waiting for her. It unsettles me more than it should. Sitara doesn’t disappear like this. Even on slow days, she drifts through the palace like a soft hum in the background.
I stop one of the aides, ask casually if they’ve seen her.
No.
I ask another.
A shake of the head.
By the time I reach the corridor near our room, something tight has already settled in my chest. I don’t like not knowing where she is. Not because I need to control anything—God, no—but because she doesn’t withdraw unless something is wrong.
I find Maya near the staircase.
“She’s sleeping,” she says quickly, eyes flicking away.
Sleeping.
That alone is enough to make me frown. Sitara doesn’t sleep through the morning unless she’s exhausted or unwell. Even then, she’ll usually tell me. Leave a note. Send a message. Something.
I don’t respond to Maya. I just turn and walk.
Our room feels too quiet when I open the door.
The curtains are drawn halfway, letting in a muted wash of light. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus and something medicinal. And there—on the bed—is Sitara.
Curled in on herself.
Her face is twisted, not dramatically, not loudly, but in that small, contained way people do when they’re trying very hard not to complain. Dried tear tracks mark her cheeks. Her lips are pressed together like she’s biting back pain.
Panic hits me fast and sharp.
“Sitara,” I say, already moving.
I cross the room in urgent strides, dropping to a crouch beside the bed. My heart is hammering, my mind running ahead of me in all the wrong directions. She stirs at my voice, lashes fluttering as she opens her eyes.
She tries to smile.
The effort nearly breaks me.
“Hi,” she says weakly, like it costs her something to get the word out.
“Hey,” I whisper, without meaning to. The word comes out softer than I expect. “Hey, princess.”
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh if it didn’t end in a hiss. I notice it then—the way her body tenses, the shallow inhale that follows.
“What’s happening?” I ask, my brows drawing together. “Are you in pain?”
She nods, small and embarrassed. “Cramps.”
And suddenly, everything clicks.
My stupid, overactive brain flashes back to late-night searches, medical articles, notes I bookmarked and reread until my eyes burned. PCOD. Hormones. Painful periods. Fatigue. Mood swings. The words rearrange themselves into something real as I look at her now.
My hand moves before I decide to do it.
I stroke her head gently, fingers threading through her hair with careful familiarity. The moment I touch her, she exhales—long, shaky—as if she’s been holding herself together with sheer will until now.
Her eyes soften.
And my chest tightens.
I shouldn’t feel this much relief at something so small. But I do.
“I’ll get you a heating pad,” I say quickly. “And herbal tea—I read that it helps. Stay here, okay?”
She laughs weakly, another hiss following right after. “I don’t think I can go anywhere even if I wanted to, Dhruv.”
I wince, hating the way she minimizes it. “I’ll be right back.”
I turn toward the door, already planning which staff member to call, when her voice stops me.
“Are you free?”
I turn back instantly. “Yes.”
No hesitation. No thought.
“Yes, princess,” I add, because it’s true in every way that matters. “I am.”
She looks at me for a long moment, like she’s weighing something inside herself. Her fingers twist in the edge of the bedsheet. I can almost hear the argument playing out in her head.
“Do you need something?” I ask gently.
She nods, but the words don’t come.
“Whatever it is,” I say, softer now, “you can tell me.”
She exhales, defeated. “Will you… hold me for a while?” Her gaze slips away from mine, embarrassed. “You’re warm,” she adds in a whisper.
Something in my chest gives.
“Yes,” I say immediately, kneeling closer. “Yes, I can.”
I sit on the bed carefully, easing myself beside her. She shifts instinctively toward me, curling into my side like she’s done this before—even though she hasn’t. Not like this. Not with need written so plainly into the lines of her body.
I pull her gently against my chest, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other settling at her back. She fits there perfectly, like my body knew where hers belonged before my mind ever caught up.
She sighs again, deeper this time.
The tension in her frame eases by degrees, and I realize she’s been bracing herself against the pain for hours. Alone.
That thought makes my jaw clench.
I rest my chin lightly against the top of her head, careful not to crowd her. My thumb traces slow, absent-minded circles on her arm. Her breathing evens out gradually, the shallow gasps turning into steadier inhales.
“Better?” I murmur.
“A little,” she admits. “Don’t move.”
“I won’t.”
And I mean it.
We sit like that, time stretching into something unmeasured. Outside, the palace goes on—footsteps, distant voices, the muted clink of crockery—but in this room, everything narrows down to her weight against me, the warmth of her body seeping into mine.
I think about how easily she tries to disappear when she’s hurting. How she turns pain into something private, contained. It angers me—not at her, never at her—but at the world that taught her this was necessary.
My hand tightens just a fraction, a silent promise.
She shifts slightly, her forehead pressing into my chest. “You don’t have to stay,” she murmurs, even as she leans closer.
I huff out a breath. “I know.”
“But you’re busy,” she insists weakly.
“I canceled everything,” I say.
She stills. “What?”
“I’m right here,” I repeat. “That’s all that matters.”
She doesn’t argue after that.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Her breathing grows heavier, her body slackening as exhaustion pulls her under. I stay still, afraid even the smallest movement might wake her or worsen the pain.
I watch her face as she sleeps.
The furrow between her brows slowly smooths out. Her lips part slightly, no longer clenched. She looks younger like this. Softer. Vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be.
And something fierce and protective coils in my chest.
I don’t know when loving her stopped being a choice and became instinct. I just know that right now, holding her feels like the most important thing I will do all day.
I press a kiss to her hair, barely there.
“You’re safe,” I whisper, even though she can’t hear me. “I’ve got you.”
And for as long as she needs it, I stay exactly where I am.