Page 111 of Scars and Crowns

Meeting again. Talking. Maybe loving each other if life somehow became kinder. But this . . . Being courted by my own husband. Being asked on a first date after already falling in love. After already marrying. After already building a family. It's ridiculous. It's completely backwards.

And somehow . . . it's the most romantic thing anyone has ever offered me.

"Okay." The word comes out quieter than I intended. He looks up immediately. I smile. "Ask me." For the first time since I've known him . . . I watch Yuvaan Jadeja become genuinely nervous.

Not diplomatic. Not careful. Not composed. Nervous.

His shoulders straighten instinctively. He clears his throat once. His fingers tighten around mine almost imperceptibly. This man can negotiate billion-rupee agreements without blinking. Can address thousands of people without notes. Can stare down an entire council chamber without so much as shifting in his chair.

And right now . . . asking his own wife on a date has made him visibly anxious.

It's so unexpectedly sweet that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling too soon. He takes one slow breath. Then another. Finally, he looks straight into my eyes. "Daisy . . . " His voice is quiet. "So . . . " Another tiny breath. "May I . . . " The corners of his mouth lift nervously. " . . . take my wife on our first date tomorrow?"

For one impossible moment . . . everything else disappears. All of it fades until there's only this man sitting in front of me, asking me a question he should have asked years ago, with the same nervous hope any ordinary boy might have carried.

My vision blurs.

Not from sadness.

From something so overwhelmingly gentle that I don't know where to put it. Nobody has ever looked at me the way he's looking at me now. Like my answer could genuinely change his entire day. Like after everything we've already survived together . . . he still wants permission.

I squeeze his hand. "I'd love that." It's barely louder than a whisper.

His shoulders loosen so visibly that I actually see the relief leave his body. He smiles. Not politely. Not the measured smile the world knows. This one starts in his eyes before it reaches his mouth. Warm. Bright. Almost boyish. Without taking his eyes off mine, he lifts my hand slowly toward his lips. His gaze flickers to me one last time—as though silently asking again.

I nod. Barely.

He presses a kiss against my knuckles. Unhurried. Gentle. So careful it almost hurts. His lips linger there for just a heartbeat longer than necessary before he lowers my hand again, still holding it as though letting go isn't currently an option.

"Tomorrow," he says softly. The certainty in those two syllables makes me smile.

"Tomorrow," I echo.

We don't say much after that. We don't need to. We simply sit together beneath the warm glow of the bedside lamp, fingers loosely entwined between us. And somewhere between the quiet and the comfort, a thought slips into my heart so gently that I almost miss it.

After everything life stole from us . . . After every year spent loving each other from opposite sides of silence . . . I'm somehow about to go on my very first date . . . with the man I've loved almost my entire life.

THE RAMPARTS

YUVAAN

I've spent far too much time deciding where to bring her. Every place I think of feels wrong somehow. The palace gardens are beautiful, but too polished. The private dining room feels like something arranged for visiting dignitaries. The lakeside reminds me too much of this afternoon, and I refuse to let fear steal another place from us.

I discard one idea after another until, eventually, I stop trying so hard. The answer had been waiting for me all along.

The ramparts.

Of course it's the ramparts.

There isn't another place in this palace that belongs to us the way those old stone walls do.

I ask the staff to string warm fairy lights along the parapet, just like they used to during festivals when we were children. Tiny golden bulbs wind along the ancient stone, soft enough that they don't compete with the stars but bright enough to make the whole place glow.

The food I carry up myself. No servants. No silver cloches. Just the things I remember making her happiest. Roasted corn brushed with butter and spices. A paper cone filled with masala peanuts. Fresh fruit.

A proper dinner because she still has a habit of pretending snacks count as meals, and I'm no longer willing to let that argument go uncontested. And, tucked carefully into the basket, a flask of chai made exactly the way she likes it. Not too sweet. Hot enough to warm her hands. Not hot enough to burn her tongue because she's always impatient and drinks it too quickly.

By the time everything is ready, dusk has begun settling over Devgarh. I hear footsteps on the staircase a few minutes later. I look up. She's standing at the top. For a second she doesn't move. Her gaze drifts over the lights . . . the blanket . . . the basket . . . Then slowly back to me. One hand rises to cover her mouth. Her eyes widen with something that looks dangerously close to tears. "You didn't . . . "