Page 130 of Scars and Crowns

The words still do something ridiculous to me. After all these years, they still manage to catch me somewhere underneath the ribs. "I love you too."

She leans across the small space between us and kisses my cheek, careful of her makeup.

I smile. "Shall we?"

She takes one breath. Then another. "Let's go."

I step out first and turn to offer her my hand.

She places hers in it.

When she steps out of the car, the maroon fabric catches the golden light pouring from the entrance, and for a second she looks almost unreal.

Not because she's dressed like a Maharani. Because she looks like herself.

The woman who once stood beside me on these same grounds with scraped knees and grass stains on her clothes. The girl who used to drag me up the ramparts when I was supposed to be studying. The woman who left this place believing she had to become someone else before she could ever return.

She doesn't look like that girl anymore.

Thank God.

She looks stronger. Softer in some places, harder in others. She looks like someone who has lived. And somehow, standing there with her hand in mine, I think that is the most beautiful thing about her.

We start up the steps. I don't pull her forward. I don't need to. She walks beside me. With every step toward the doors, her shoulders settle. Her chin lifts. The hand holding mine stops trembling. By the time we reach the entrance, she's standing straighter than she was when we left the car.

I squeeze her fingers once. She squeezes back. And suddenly I realize something. She never needed me to make her strong. She never needed me to teach her how to stand in a room full of people who thought they were more important than her.

She already knew how. She only needed someone beside her who would never make her stand alone again.

I glance at her one last time before the doors open. "My Maharani," I murmur.

She looks up at me. "Pretty Boy." And then we walk in together.

LET’S LEAVE

ANAMIKA

He hasn't let go of my hand once since we walked through the doors.

Not when he introduced me to the finance minister. Not when one of the senior council members stopped us to offer his congratulations. Not even when three women I have never met before smiled politely at me while their eyes travelled over my saree, my jewellery, my face, measuring me against whatever picture of the Maharani they had apparently carried in their heads before tonight.

Yuvaan's hand has stayed wrapped around mine through all of it. Every time someone approaches, his thumb brushes once over my knuckles before he speaks. "My wife, Anamika." He says it so naturally. So proudly.

As though there has never been a question about the word. And each time I hear it, something inside me melts a little more.

By the time we reach the edge of the dance floor, I am almost beginning to believe that maybe I can do this. Maybe I can stand in this room without feeling like everyone is waiting for me to prove that I don't belong here.

Kairav is beside us, currently explaining to an elderly council member why civet cats have been unfairly portrayed in popular culture. I have no idea how the conversation got there. I take a sip of juice, trying not to laugh, and let my attention drift across the ballroom. It's an ordinary glance.

Nothing more.

My eyes move over the crowd, the chandeliers, the tables, the men gathered near the bar. And then I see him. At first, it's only the back of his head. Dark hair. Close cut. Black suit. Nothing distinctive enough to make me look twice.

Except for something at the base of his neck. A tattoo. Small. Geometric.

Three sharp lines forming a shape I haven't seen in years. My body recognizes it before my mind does. The glass nearly slips from my hand. My fingers tighten around Yuvaan's. Hard.

He goes still immediately. I don't look at him. I can't. I'm staring at the man near the bar, and every breath seems to disappear somewhere between my lungs and my throat.