Page 114 of The Defiant Wife

Then he turns slightly toward me. "Chief Minister," he says, pride quietly slipping into his tone, "I'd like you to meet my wife . . . Diya Goyal."

My heart skips. Not because of the title. Because of the way he saysmy wife. Like he's proud of it. I step forward with a polite smile and extend my hand.

For one brief second, I think everything is perfectly fine.

Then I see it.

The Chief Minister's eyes move from my face to my hand. To the pale patches of vitiligo on my skin. His expression changes almost instantly.

It's subtle. A tiny pause. A slight tightening around his mouth.

Then instead of shaking my hand . . . He quietly pulls his own back. The movement is small. But it feels enormous. My smile freezes. Something heavy settles inside my chest.

I've seen this look before. Too many times. People who think I'm contagious. People who think touching me is somehow dangerous. People who look at me with curiosity . . . or pity . . . or disgust.

For one painful moment, I'm a little girl again. Standing alone. Being told to stay away from everyone else. I tighten my grip around my clutch.

It's fine.

I'm used to this.

I'll make a joke.

I'll save the situation.

The last thing I want is for Veeraj's event to become a scene because of me.

I open my mouth. Before I can say a single word . . . My hand is gently pulled back.

I blink in surprise. Veeraj has already stepped beside me. His arm slips firmly around my waist. The warmth in his touch is steady. Protective.

I look up at him. His face is calm. Too calm. But his eyes . . . I've never seen them like this before. They're cold . . . sharp. Filled with a quiet anger that sends a chill through the room. The conversations around us slowly die down.

Everyone is watching. Veeraj doesn't seem to notice. Or care. He looks directly at the Chief Minister.

His voice is low and controlled. "You don't have to worry about shaking her hand." A long silence follows. Then he adds, without breaking eye contact, "You were never worthy of touching my wife anyway."

The room goes completely still. The Chief Minister's face loses all color.

Nobody says a word. Veeraj doesn't stop there.

He takes my hand in his. Not loosely. Not for appearances. He laces our fingers together. Proudly.

"If someone cannot show my wife the basic respect she deserves," he says evenly, "then they don't deserve the privilege of standing beside her."

His thumb brushes lightly across the back of my hand. His voice softens just enough for only me to hear. "You never have to earn your place beside me, Diya."

My eyes instantly fill with tears.

He notices.

Without caring who is watching, he gently wipes one away with his thumb.

Then he looks back at the Chief Minister one last time. "I'd rather walk away from every political alliance in this room thanallow anyone to insult my wife." His words leave no room for discussion.

He turns toward me. "Come."

Just one word.