Page 84 of The Defiant Wife

He looks down at his hands. "No."

A faint smile—so small I almost miss it—touches his lips. "I wanted to become a mechanic."

I blink. "A mechanic?"

"When I was fourteen, I used to disappear into the palace garage."His voice grows quieter."The head mechanic restored old motorcycles. He used to let me help."His thumb brushes over the faded scar across his knuckles."I liked understanding how engines worked."He looks toward his bike."If something stopped working, you could usually fix it. Replace the damaged part. Tighten a bolt. Clean the carburetor."He inhales deeply,"Machines made more sense than people."

I don't know why that sentence hurts.Maybe because I understand it.More than I'd like to admit.

"I wanted to dance," I hear myself say.His eyes return to mine.

"Kathak." I look down at my melting kulfi. "I loved it."

"My mother enrolled me when I was little."

"I loved the ghungroos . . . the stories . . . the music."A lump forms in my throat."Then the vitiligo spread to my ankles."

I swallow. "My father saw it during one performance."

The memory still stings.

"He told my mother to stop my classes." I laugh softly, though there isn't anything funny about it."He said people weren't watching the performance anymore." The breath settles heavy against my chest."They were looking at my skin."

I stare at the wooden stick in my hand."He didn't think someone who looked like me should be on a stage."

Silence settles between us.

Not uncomfortable.

Just quiet.

I expect him to change the subject. Or tell me he's sorry. Or give me one of those polite responses people always do when they don't know what else to say.

Instead, the plastic chair beside me creaks.

He turns toward me.Before I can think, his hand gently wraps around my wrist.His grip is warm.

Steady.

He doesn't touch the white patches on my skin like he's afraid of them.He simply holds my wrist.

Grounding me.I slowly look up.His eyes are fixed on mine.His jaw is tight.I've never seen anger like this on his face before. Not directed at me.Directed for me.

"Your father was wrong." His voice is low. Calm. But every word lands with quiet force.

"I noticed your mehendi the day we got married."His thumb shifts ever so slightly against my wrist."The patterns looked beautiful."

He holds my gaze."So did the hands they were drawn on."

Everything inside me goes completely still.

He noticed.

Not because he pitied me.

Not because he was trying to make me feel better.

He simply . . . noticed.