Page 35 of Scars and Crowns

They spoke about marriage the same way they discussed annual budgets. Necessary. Practical. Efficient.

For years, I convinced myself that if I ever gave in . . . If I ever signed my name on a marriage certificate . . . It would feel exactly like surrender. Like ticking the final unchecked box on someone else's list. Instead . . . The pen feels surprisingly light in my hand. There isn't a single moment where this feels like compromise.

Because this . . . This was never about marrying.

It was always about who. If I'm honest . . . I've imagined this day far more times than I ever admitted.

Not a royal wedding. Not the ceremony. Just . . . Her.

Standing beside me. Some version of us saying yes to each other somewhere. I only ever allowed myself that fantasy late at night, when the palace had gone quiet and there was no one around to catch the expression on my face.

It always felt selfish. She had chosen her dreams. She'd left to build a life that didn't need me.

Wanting her to come back . . . Wanting this . . . Felt unfair.

As though I'd already forfeited the right to hope for it the day I watched her train disappear. Yet here she is. Standing beside me. A simple red saree. Hair neatly tied back. And tucked behind one ear is a single daisy.

Sara insisted on putting it there herself this morning. Apparently no bride should get married without flowers. Anamika had laughed. Then surrendered. Just like she always used to whenever Sara decided something with complete confidence.

I look at her now and realise something about myself that isn't particularly flattering. I am not nearly as selfless as I'd convinced myself I was.

For years I told myself I'd moved on. That I was content. That missing her had become manageable. An old ache. Nothing more. Every bit of that carefully built story collapsed the second she walked into my study carrying a tray of coffee.

It took less than a minute. One look. One whispered "Daisy." That was all.

People would probably wonder why I never searched for her.

The truth is . . . I could have. I had her initial contact details for years. I had more resources than most people could imagine. Finding someone wasn't beyond my reach. Finding her certainly wasn't.

But when it came to Anamika . . . Love was never the reason I stayed away.

Respect was.

Years ago, before she left, I'd once made the mistake of offering her a life where she'd never have to worry about money again. Where I'd take care of everything.

I'd thought I was helping.

She'd been furious. Not because she doubted me. Because she wanted to build something that belonged to her. She wanted a life she'd earned herself. It took me an entire week to make her forgive me.

Eventually I succeeded by taking her to the quarterly fair and buying her every ridiculous snack she pointed at. She'd declared me only "partially forgiven."

I remember thinking I'd never met anyone braver. I still haven't. She has always chosen the harder road if it meant keeping her self-respect intact.

How could I claim to love her . . . and then take away the very independence she'd fought for?

So I waited. I respected the choice she'd made. I convinced myself that loving her also meant trusting her to live the life she wanted, even if I wasn't part of it. I don't regret that.

Not for a second.

But . . . Watching her now . . . Something twists painfully beneath my ribs.

Because the woman standing across the room isn't carrying herself like someone whose dreams came true. Over the past week I've watched her more closely than she'll ever realise.

Not in a way that invades her space.

Just . . . the way someone watches approaching rain. She's quieter now. The laughter still comes . . . but a fraction later than it used to. As though she has to remember how before allowing herself to do it.

Her smile reaches her lips first. Her eyes take longer. Sometimes not at all.