Chapter 23
Vedveer
Ring a Bell!
My eyes are fixed on Aaditha as I descend the curved staircase that leads to the foyer of the Durbar Hall.
She’s a vision in a colour I struggle to pin down.
Is it silver? A cool-toned sparkle? Polished.
Composed. It shimmers under the light, a wintery richness complemented by a frosty aura.
A form-fitting gown, the shade of which seems to change with every step I take, gaining in colour, from platinum to titanium.
I ignore my erratic heartbeat and put the hustle down to the glare of the chandelier.
Aaditha wants nothing to do with me; she makes that amply clear.
During the day, she avoided me entirely, choosing to stay locked with the designers, who would normally bore her to tears.
I spotted her once in the corridor, but she was gone before I could stop her.
I found her again in Mother’s visiting room, but she turns it on me, insisting we’ve already met, that it is Mother I was looking for, and scripts her escape.
Her gaze sweeps over me, then looks away unimpressed, like I wear tuxedos every Friday. But her breath catches in the hollow of her throat, betraying more than she intends.
‘Shall we?’ I ask, offering her my hand.
Aaditha puts her fingers to work, adjusting her skirt ever so slightly, just enough to give her hand an excuse.
‘My hands are busy, Your Highness,’ she says dryly.
I withdraw my hand and settle it at the small of her back, guiding her forward. She says nothing, but I can’t help the smile she pointedly refuses to acknowledge the gesture.
I step closer and lower my voice to a murmur. ‘Busy with what, exactly?’ I have to ask.
Aaditha glances sideways, a flicker of amusement sparking her eyes.
‘Contemplating appropriate punishment for your presumptuousness,’ she says.
I chuckle, leaning in just enough for my breath to caress the top of her ear. ‘I’m willing to accept any sentence you deem fit.’
She finally meets my gaze. ‘Good. Then don’t expect mercy.’
Aaditha’s face, flawlessly made-up, gives nothing away, even when she’s delivering a perfectly timed dismissal.
I walk slowly with her. Liquid silver, that’s the colour of her gown. It flows with her, languidly, moving as she takes a step, taking her shape as she covers ground.
Her hands are on the front of her gown, pretending to coax the skirt. That’s when I see it – no engagement ring.
Her fingers are bare, conspicuously so. It wasn’t there this morning either.
The difficult part is that she won’t engage – just that much and no more. I messed things up in Bengaluru, I get that, but she won’t give me a chance to apologize and make it up to her.
I messaged. I called. I’ve been virtually stalking her. She refuses to take my calls. Hell, she refuses to look at me even.
She ignored me all morning and afternoon, and now we’re walking side by side. My palm rests against the bare warmth of her back, but the silence between us is louder than ever. She’s built a quiet boundary, and even in this closeness, I can feel the distance she’s determined to keep.
I look at her hands again, needing to be sure. They are bare, completely. My heart slams against my chest, pushed towards a truth it’s not ready to hold. My breath grows shallow.
Aaditha knows I have noticed; she looks up at me and smiles. The only piece of jewellery she has on is a pair of ornate earrings, which I may have seen on Mother.
I take a deep breath. I have to play the part for the next few minutes, and then we will talk. I’m determined.
Aaditha and I are the guests of honour at the premiere of the Hollywood movie shot in Jaipur.
The five-minute drive to the Art Deco Cinema is done in an unquiet silence. I can’t make up my mind on how exactly to word the question playing on loop in my head.
Where is your engagement ring? That would be too direct. Borderline rude, maybe.
I’m staring at Aaditha’s palm, which is opening and closing, maybe because I think that she has hidden it in her clasp.
Why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring? Authoritarian?
I arrive at something somewhat cooler: Lost your ring?
By the time I pick the tone, we have reached.
I get around the hood of the car quickly, lending her a hand as she steps out onto the red carpet. This time, she mouths a thank you, her gaze holding mine. Her fragrance, jasmine in bloom, fills me.
We move together and wave at Jaipur. She isn’t hitching the skirt of her gown now.
Aaditha wears her brightest smile for the people before turning sharply in the direction of the Art Deco Cinema.
The drone cameras are at work above us; searchlights sweep across the sky. At the other end, paparazzi bulbs flash at us.
Waves of ‘Yuvraj, Rajkumari, Yuvraj, Rajkumari’ charge the late-evening air.
My palm is on the small of her back. I feel her shudder.
We pose for the cameras, perfectly in sync. I’m standing by her, closer than usual, maybe because I want to make up for the fact that she isn’t wearing her engagement ring or that the crowds are only 60–70 yards away from us, and I fear she will float away into the night.
As we pause one more time on the carpet, the photographers are shouting both our names. ‘Yuvrajji, Rajkumari’, ‘please look here’, ‘ek baar aur’.
Inside, the hall is a blur of velvet seats and champagne flutes. We take our places in the front row while the director makes his speech on ‘the spirit of Jaipur’ and ‘how generous and gracious the royal family has been.’
‘Have you lost your ring?’ The tone is harsher than I intended it to be, and I regret it immediately.
‘Which ring?’ she asks, looking surprised and straightening her back, all at the same time. ‘The one you put on me for the paparazzi?’
I hear myself exhale. She is being deliberately flippant. ‘What are you saying?’ I ask
She pats my hand gently, her eyes directed to the screen. ‘We’re at the cinema, Your Highness.’
I choke back a snort.
The lights dim, the film starts. A sweeping shot of the Aravallis fills the screen, but all I can see are Aaditha’s naked fingers, which are now waving at me from the armrest between us.