My nose wrinkles at the putrid smell emanating from Rafay's dinner sitting on a plate in front of me. Well, it's supposed to be dinner. I can safely say that my attempt at making daal chawal was an utter failure.

Instead of the beautiful, golden lentil gravy delicately sitting atop perfectly steamed rice, there's an unidentifiable brown sludge hastily dumped onto some burnt grains.

"Well, I did my best," I say candidly to Afshi and Rukhsaar.

After Rafay had ordered me to cook for him, Afshi and Rukhsaar had offered to help. Keeping my promise, I forced Rukhsaar to a stool behind the counter and pushed Afshi alongside her.

"How hard can it be?" I had said, knowing full well that every dish I have ever made has been a disaster.

Rukhsaar looks down at my plate, her face contorted into a guise of unease. "You know, I can just make another dish. It'll take me twenty minutes at most."

Even Afshi looks a little restless. "I really think you should let Rukhsaar cook something else. We can say you made it."

I shake my head in disagreement. I promised Rukhsaar a night off, and that is a promise I intend to keep.

Afshi scrutinizes me for a few seconds before saying, "Alright. After all, you know your husband best."

I give her a look as I sprinkle some hara dhaniya on top of the abomination of a dinner dish to add some liveliness to it. "Very funny."

Afshi shrugs. "I don't know, I just thought after all these days of living together you'd know a thing or two about him."

"I only know one thing about him, and that is his propensity for infidelity," I retort.

Afshi lets out a laugh. "I didn't expect anything less."

I carry the plate along with a glass of water before making my way to the dining room. The dining room is just as opulent as the rest of the house, with utensils and napkin rings likely made of gold. Candles cast a warm glow, some in ornate sconces on the walls, and others on decorative console tables lining the perimeter of the room. In the center of the main dining table sits a beautiful candelabra, richly adorned and spanning at least a third of the table.

Rafay is seated at the head of the table, engrossed in his paperwork, a lock of inky hair falling onto his forehead. I watch as he tries to blow it away before clearing my throat to announce my presence. Startled, he looks up as if he wasn't expecting me. I gesture with the plate of food and approach him, setting it down beside his laptop before quickly stepping away.

"Dinner is served," I say softly, my voice echoing in the empty dining room.

Rafay's skin takes on a green tint when he glances at the dish. "I thought I told you to cook something edible. This looks like it could kill me and then give me food poisoning in my grave."

Our eyes meet over the dinner table, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his face and sharpening the contours of his features with subtle shadows. "It was bold of you to assume I knew how to cook," I answer softly with an eyebrow raised. The dim lighting in the room makes it easier to meet his gaze.

He pushes the plate away and rests his elbows on the table, chin in hands, studying me intently as if trying to gauge the truth behind my words.

Rafay's prolonged gaze becomes unnerving, stirring discomfort in me.

"I can't cook very well, but I know how to bake," I say suddenly, as if offering an explanation.

I'm taken aback by my words, unsure of their origin. Why did I say that?

Nodding briefly, he immerses himself once more in the stack of papers in front of him, the plate of food forgotten.

* * * * *

When I get to my room, I find Afshi sitting on my bed with her textbook in her lap. "How did it go?" she asks without looking up.

"Better that expected." I slide my gold chudi off and place it onto the side table. I'm unsure why I continue to wear it daily, given I'm not too fond of the person who gifted it to me. The reason behind it remains elusive to me.

My dupatta slips off my head and I toss it in a corner while unraveling my plait. Thick, ebony tresses fall in waves down to my waist.

Afshi groans in frustration. "I forgot to tell you to grab some paani while you were down there." She clasps her hands together pleadingly, batting her eyelashes at me in a dramatic manner. "If you would be so kind, Your Majesty."

"Bas kardo," I scold. "I'll get you water if you promise to stop calling me that."

She waves a hand dismissively, turning her attention back to her textbook.

I slip through the door, closing it behind me quietly, so as to not wake anyone up. I suspect the remaining rooms on this floor are empty, because I reside in the guest wing, but with Rafay's elusive persona, one can never assume. My hope is that there are no more unwanted guests lodging in the mehel.

As I near the kitchen, I notice that the light is still on. Sounds of pots and pans clanging resonate from within and a rich tapestry of aromatic spices permeates the air, teasing my senses.

Silently, I make my way to the entryway, not wanting to alert the person cooking of my presence. I steal a glance inside and spot the unmistakable cascade of black hair, instantly recognizing the familiar profile.

Rafay stands with his back to me, engrossed in chopping, what looks like, onions. Next to him, a pot simmers on the stove, emitting a delicious scent.

I stare at him, captivated by the effortless grace with which he navigates the kitchen, as if every step is choreographed to perfection.

Trying not to draw attention to myself, I slip into the kitchen, careful not to make a sound. Rukhsaar mentioned to me once that she keeps the pantry stocked with water bottles, which is where I head. The door to the pantry is already ajar, aiding me in my endeavor to go unnoticed.

I try not to gape at the sheer amount of items in front of me. The pantry is not so much a closet; it's akin to a bedroom. Floor to ceiling shelves neatly line the wall, laden with an assortment of different spices, flours, dried grains, and more. My eyes scan the inventory quickly for water, successfully locating plastic cases of bottles in the corner.

Moving with quiet precision, I take two bottles in my hands and exit the pantry. I glance over at Rafay once more, where I see him at the sink washing dishes. The sound of running water disguises my footsteps as I walk out of the kitchen.

"Mahroosa."

My spine stiffens as Rafay's voice floats through the hallway. I am already halfway up the staircase when I turn around to find him standing at the base.

"Water," I gesture with the bottles in my hand by way of explanation.

We stare at each other, a silent pause hanging between us.

"Well," I start awkwardly, failing to find words to finish my sentence, and turn around to head upstairs.

"Would you like to join me?" Rafay runs a hand through his hair, a telltale sign of his discomfort after asking that question.

I nod slowly, mostly driven by curiosity to see how this unfolds. "Let me drop off these water bottles to Afshi."

* * * * *

Rafay chops up some hara dhaniya and sprinkles it onto his rendition of daal chawal, which looks much more appetizing than mine. He brings both of our plates to the dining hall and sets them down next to each other on one side of the table.

As we sit down I say, "You don't strike me as someone who knows how to cook."

"My mother taught me when I was younger. She said I should learn how to do a little bit of everything, and never label anything as a woman's job or man's job." He places a fork on my plate before delving into his meal.

My mouth floods with flavor as I take a bite, savoring the indulgent taste. Daal is a simple dish, usually made with simple spices, like namak, laal mirch, and haldi, and a few vegetables like onions and tomatoes. Somehow, I consistently found a way to ruin a basic recipe.

I can feel Rafay's gaze penetrating the side of my head. "It's good," I offer. "Although, it's tough to top my version."

He cracks a small smile, and I realize it's the first time I've witnessed an expression other than annoyance or anger from him.

"Truly," he replies.

We dine in silence, interrupted only by the occasional scrap of forks against plates. Having eaten dinner earlier, I can only manage a few bites before I'm full.

"If you know how to cook, why did you entertain my suggestion?" I ask quizzically.

Rafay smiles again, into his plate, unsettling me for the tenth time this evening. "I was curious. Since you've moved in, you have caused a spectacle every day, I was intrigued to see what other antics you would get up to."

"I am not a carnival display," I say quietly, in a defensive manner.

"No, you're not, but you have most certainly piqued my interest."

My cheeks take on a rosy tinge, and I find myself wanting to change the topic of conversation. "Why can't I practice medicine in a hospital?"

He sets his fork down after finishing his food and takes the glass of water sitting in front of him. "Safety," he answers before draining the entire glass in one swift motion.

"The hospital is safe," I counter carefully, not wanting to agitate him and jeopardize my progress in making requests. Although he claims he won't grant my wishes, he's done so thus far, leading me to believe he has a conscience after all.

"Halaat kharab they aur hain."

I turn to face him. "I've lived in these halaatein for some time after the war. It is nothing new to me."

"The halaatein aren't new to you, but your title is," he says, turning head towards me to meet my eyes. "I can't change my father's rules."

"You're a prince," I challenge.

"Not a king," he replies. "Only kings and queens may change the laws of the kingdom."

I prepare to post the pivotal question, but Rafay swiftly replies, answering it. "Only my court advisor is allowed access to information about my coronation. End of discussion."

I settle back in my chair, defeated and disheartened.

He sighs and I think for the first time in my life, I see a flicker of remorse in his face. "I'm sorry. Some things are beyond my control, and royals working in public environments is one of them."

I close my eyes and swallow against the hard knot in my throat.

Rafay clears his throat, effectively catching my attention. "Nurture your knowledge and stay learning, for knowledge is power."

"And how shall I do that?" I ask once I regain my composure. "I don't have any new medical books with me."

He reaches into the chest pocket of his kurta and pulls out an ornate brass key. "You have access to the entire place, except for one room, which is off limits to everyone."

I look at him puzzled. "What does this unlock?"

"The library."

Needless to say, I didn't hear any of what he said after that.

Words to be Defined

Daal chawal - a traditional South Asian dish that consists of a lentil gravy poured over a bed of rice

Hara dhaniya - cilantro

Paani - water

Bas kardo - stop it/that's enough

Namak - salt

Lala mirch - red chili powder

Halaat kharab they aur hain - the situation/circumstance was and still is bad

Halaatein - situations/circumstances (plural)

Kurta - traditional South Asian shirt/tunic