Page 95 of The Defiant Wife

"Yes."

She blinks."Why?"Her voice is much quieter now.She's clutching the little silk pouch so tightly her fingers wrinkle the fabric.

I step just a little closer.Not enough to overwhelm her.Just enough that the noise of the party fades into the background.

I meet her eyes.."Because . . . " My voice comes out lower than I expect." . . . you look beautiful tonight, Diya."

She forgets to breathe. The colour slowly rises across her cheeks before spreading all the way to her ears.

For once . . . She doesn't have a clever reply.

She just looks at me. Completely flustered. Completely speechless.

I let myself look at her for one more quiet second before offering her my arm.

"Come on.The birthday girl is probably wondering where her favourite person has disappeared to."

She glances at my arm.Then back at me. A small smile appears on her face before she slips her hand through it.

Together, we walk back toward our family.And for the first time in a very long time . . . I don't mind everyone watching.

33. FEVERISH

DIYA

The worst part about getting sick isn't the fever. It isn't the pounding headache, the aching body, or the way every bone feels sore.

It's the person I become.

The moment my temperature shoots up, all my patience disappears. I turn into the world's grumpiest patient. Everything annoys me. Everyone annoys me.

Especially people who keep telling me to drink water. Or eat. Or rest.

I know I'm being impossible. I know I'm throwing the kind of tantrum a five-year-old would be embarrassed by. But I can't help it.

My throat feels like I've swallowed sand. My head pounds every time I open my eyes, and even this enormous bedroom suddenly feels cold and lonely.

Veeraj stands a few feet away from the bed, watching me quietly. He hasn't said anything for the last ten minutes.

Every time he walks closer, I pull the quilt over my head like it'll somehow make him disappear.

He doesn't argue. He doesn't sigh dramatically. He just watches. Finally, he lets out a slow breath, turns around, and walks out of the room.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind him.

For some ridiculous reason, my chest immediately tightens. A stupid tear slips down my cheek.

I bury my face deeper into the pillow, feeling even more miserable than before.

Of course he left.

Why would he stay here and deal with someone who's done nothing but snap at him all morning?

He probably has actual work to do. Meetings. Files. A kingdom. And one cranky wife who keeps telling him to go away.

The room suddenly feels much bigger. Much emptier. The loneliness creeps in so quickly that it reminds me of feelings I'd buried years ago.

I pull the blanket tighter around myself. A few moments later, the bedroom door opens again. I peek out from under the quilt.