Poornima’s words hung in the air like a delicate veil. “I don’t want you to declare me as your wife to the world,” she had said, voice steady. “Just being there for me is enough. No grand things. I like simple things.” Then she rose, smoothed her saree, and slipped away to freshen up.

Veeresh watched the space she’d left—an echo of her scent, the soft fall of fabric—and for the first time in a long time, he listened without argument. Her wish was not a request for less of him; it was a demand for sincerity. Not shows, but presence. Not headlines, but home.

He folded the moment over in his mind, turning it in every direction. The instinct to proclaim, to conquer, to make the world acknowledge what was his—was still there, like a muscle tense with habit. But beneath it something quieter had begun to grow: the knowledge that claiming her in public meant nothing if he continued to wound her in private.

Veeresh rose and walked to the window. Jaipur’s sun softened into late afternoon; the palace hummed with its familiar rhythm. He thought of the small things Poornima loved—how she arranged the thyme sprigs, the way she preferred her tea with less sugar, the precise angle she liked the cushions. He remembered the pages of her book, the childhood ache, the list of husband-qualities she’d written down in secret.

Simple, he decided. Quiet. Real.

He made a plan not of grand gestures, but of tiny, deliberate actions:

— Show up at her hotel without fanfare and sit quietly in the corner while she led the meeting.

— Ensure her business licenses and deals are untouchable—work hidden in the shadows, protection without spectacle.

— Leave small, thoughtful things she’d appreciate: a cup of the tea she liked, a fresh notebook for her writing, a single marigold on her table.

— Speak less. Listen more. Apologize when he needed to, without turning it into theater.

Veeresh smiled—a small, private curve. He would protect her name not by shouting it from rooftops but by keeping the world from whispering against it. He would make himself the quiet kind of strength she asked for.

When Poornima returned, fresh and composed, Veeresh rose to greet her with nothing grand—only a cup of warm tea, steam curling between them, and a single marigold laid on the saucer. No public fanfare. No claim. Just presence.

“Simple,” he said, offering the cup. His voice was soft, earnest. “For you.”

Poornima accepted the tea, eyes searching his. She found in them a promise that felt different from the ones he’d made before—smaller, steadier, and perhaps truer. She curled her fingers around the warm cup and for the first time in a long time felt, just for a moment, that rebuilding might be possible.