Page 128 of Scars and Crowns

The invitation is still sitting on his desk. The gala is still three weeks away. There will still be people who whisper. There will still be people who remember exactly where I came from and think that somehow makes me less deserving of where I am now.

But standing here in his arms, I suddenly don't feel quite as frightened of them. "You're going to stay beside me, right?" I ask quietly.

His cheek brushes my hair. "Every second."

"What if I mess up?"

"I'll be there."

"What if I forget someone's name?"

"I'll remind you."

"What if I use the wrong fork?"

"I'll use the wrong fork too."

I lift my head, laughing. "You would?"

"I'd use all of them just to make you feel better."

"That's ridiculous."

"I've been told I'm very devoted."

I smile. He looks down at me. "Anamika?"

"Hm?"

"You don't have to become someone else before you walk into that room." His thumb brushes over my knuckles. "Just walk in with me."

Something inside me settles. I nod. "Okay." He pulls me gently back into the dance. And this time, I don't count my steps. I don't watch my feet. I don't think about the ballroom. I just let him lead me, let the music carry us around the quiet study, and let myself believe, for the first time, that perhaps belonging was never something I needed to prove. Perhaps it was simply something I could choose.

And if I have to walk into that ballroom with a hundred people watching, I'll do it with his hand in mine.

That, I think, I can manage.

MAROON

YUVAAN

I'm standing outside our room adjusting my cufflinks for what has to be the third time when the door opens behind me.

I turn automatically. And forget, quite completely, what I was doing.

Anamika steps into the corridor wearing maroon.

Not the soft cotton kurtas she's been living in lately, not one of the simple dresses she wears to the bookshop, but a saree in a deep, rich shade that seems to gather the warm light from the corridor around her. The fabric falls neatly around her, the pallu resting over one shoulder, elegant without looking like she's spent hours trying to make it so. Her hair is loose tonight, dark waves falling past her shoulders, and the small silver daisy she's worn almost every day since she was eighteen rests against her collarbone.

I stare. She takes two steps before she notices. "What?"

I realize I've been silent for far too long.

Her fingers immediately go to her hair, smoothing one side before checking the pallu at her shoulder. "Is something wrong? Amma Saheba chose this saree and I wasn't sure about the colour, but she said maroon would—"

"You look beautiful." The words come out rougher than I intended.

She stops. Then her cheeks begin to turn pink.