Days passed with minimal interaction between Rafay and I. We kept to ourselves, keeping our conversations to a minimum. Our exchanges consisted of nothing more than occasional terse remarks like "Move out of my way" from Rafay and a quick "Sorry" from me. He stayed true to his word: he does not talk to me, nor does he display his extramarital affairs . Though we do not sleep in the same bedroom, I had not seen any unfamiliar women around the mehel lately. Whether or not he is sneaking them in without my knowledge, is not something I wish to worry myself with.

I spend my days with Rukhsaar and Cas, often helping them in the kitchen, and reading the medical journals I brought with me when I moved into this prison.

Time in the kitchen reminds me of those days where I would come home from school, hungry and exhausted, and Raza would have a plate of steaming hot food on the table ready for me to devour. He was the true definition of an all-rounder, being a doctor, an exceptional cook, and never declining the opportunity to be of help to someone.

Out of the two of us siblings, Raza was the talented one in the kitchen. He picked up Ammi's knack for cooking and recreated her rich, aromatic recipes like it was second nature to him. Savory foods were not my forte, but desserts were. I could make anything from a simple plate of shahi tukra to an elaborate arrangement of different types of halwa, barfi, and mithai.

My heart aches every time I try a new dessert recipe because I am reminded of the fact that Raza was my taste tester. His insightful opinions and valuable suggestions always enhanced my dishes.

The medical journals were Ammi's. I crave turning the pages and seeing her comments scribbled on the margins. My eyes seek out the barely-decipherable scrawl annotating her perspective on certain methods or discoveries. My father was ingenious, but my mother was extraordinary. She had the most research publications in the country, with entire journals and books to her name. Some of the textbooks that were required reading in medical school were written by her.

She was the reason I wanted to become a doctor.

The wedding took place at the beginning of my winter break. As it comes to an end, I mentally prepare myself to start my last half of hospital rotations. After this, I will have the freedom to practice medicine wherever I please.

I finish the delicious halwa and puri Rukhsaar made for me and slip on my lab coat, preparing to head out for the hospital. As I approach the main door and reach out to grab the handle, it opens suddenly. Startled, I take a step back, only to trip over my feet and fall unceremoniously to the marble floor, twisting my right ankle in the process.

Acute, stabbing pain shoots through my ankle and I grasp it in an effort to alleviate the pain. Rafay's dark hazel eyes flicker over me momentarily before he steps away, disregarding my presence on the floor as if I were a discarded wrapper, unnoticed and untouched.

An unpleasant sensation passes through me, not so much hurt, but more like a twinge of sadness. I sigh and attempt to stand, placing a hand on the door in front of me for assistance, uncertain of what I was expecting from him. Surely any person with the slightest bit of courtesy would help someone they've sent inadvertently knocked to the ground.

Gingerly, I put weight on the affected foot, testing its capacity. Searing, needle-like pain runs up my leg, causing me to wince. Despite my best efforts, I can't suppress the soft sound of discomfort that escapes me as I press my right foot into the floor in an effort to start walking again.

Sprained ankle.

"You might have a broken bone."

I glance over my shoulder, taken aback. I hadn't realized that Rafay had been standing behind me this whole time. His artfully disheveled onyx hair is slightly damp and his defined torso is covered in a thin veil of sweat.

I avert my gaze hastily, uncomfortable with his state of undress and focus on his black running shoes instead. "It's just a sprain, I'll be fine." No thanks to you.

"Doctors are not supposed to self-diagnose." He approaches me with caution in his stride, as if he is unsure of his choice to engage with me. "It might be broken."

I eye him warily, unsure of his intentions. "I know the difference between a fracture and a sprain."

"Doctors always diminish the severity of their own ailments."

"Doctors know what they are doing because they are experts in their field." I delicately apply pressure on my right foot again, assessing the pain. The piercing pain has faded into a dull, throbbing ache, affirming my decision to continue with my journey to my rotations.

I open the front door, taking in the overcast weather and slight humidity in the air. I should be fine to walk on foot without an umbrella.

"Might I ask where you are going?" Rafay asks from behind me.

"The hospital. I'm going to be late, so if you'll excuse me, I have to be on my way." I begin trekking through the expansive front lawn, which was probably three times the size of the mehel. He walks with me, staying a few paces behind.

"I thought you said you weren't hurt." I look back at him and see a crease between his eyebrows and his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

A sigh of annoyance escapes me. "I have rotations. It's my last semester of training, so I really have to be on time. Maaf kijiye ga," I say, my hands held up, pressing my palms together.

"I'm sending guards with you."

"What for?" I ask, perplexed.

"It's not safe out there," he replies. Both of us have stopped walking at this point, with Rafay a few steps behind me.

"Kya matlab?" I question him. "As far as I was aware, nothing serious has happened in the kingdom in the last few days."

Rafay's gaze is unreadable as he says, "Things are different now. Your status is different now."

Of course. "I thought you said there was no rule in denying the crown," I state indignantly.

"There isn't. Coronation or no coronation, that does not change the fact that you are a sultani by marriage now. I will not have you arguing with me." He turns to the direction of the mehel and starts walking back to the door, effectively ending the conversation. "I'm sending guards."

I release a sigh of irritation once I reach the front gates. The guards let me through without hesitation, catching me by surprise because I expected some resistance.

Curious onlookers stop to observe the new member of the royal family trekking down Darmiyani Sarakh. I pay no attention to them as my eyes manifest tunnel vision. I see the top of Rashid Jahan Hospital among the shorter buildings and quicken my pace.

The sound of footsteps behind me slows my stride. I take a quick glance over my shoulder and see two mehel guards following my path. Shaking my head in annoyance, I plow through the bustling streets of Surajistan and arrive at the hospital.

As I push through the main doors, receptionists, nurses, and doctors all stand up and gaze at me in amazement and confusion.

"Where is Dr. Raksha?" I ask the front desk receptionist. She doesn't look much older than seventeen, but that's how the war affected the youth. It left them clambering to find whatever way they could to pay the bills and start their lives over again.

A look of slight fear glazes over her face. I fix my stance instantly as I realize it is because of me. "Where can I find Dr. Raksha?" I ask in a more calm manner.

"She's in the pediatric ward," she says quietly, her eyes flickering over my face in apprehension. "Your Majesty."

I stiffen.

"Your Highness, I have to get back to work. Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asks, practically itching to return to her task to avoid a spectacle.

I put my hand on the counter to get her attention once more. "Last question, I promise. Do you know where Dr. Afshaneh Rizwan is?"

The receptionist's eyes flicker up to my face again, this time with less apprehension. "She was also assigned to the pediatric ward."

"Thank you," I say graciously and turn towards the stairwell.

A delayed reaction to her words overcomes me and I turn back around. "One more thing, please don't call me 'Your Majesty' or 'Your Highness'."

The receptionist nods her head slowly. "Alright . . . Dr. Durrani."

I offer her a small smile before stepping into the well-lit stairwell. This is my favorite spot in the entire hospital. I used to come here when I was stressed beyond all reason, or just needed a break from academics. The floor-to-ceiling windows brought in all the light in the world, transforming it into a sanctuary for those seeking respite from the gloomy corridors of the hospital. Afshi and I used to abandon lectures and hide out here in our first year, until we realized the value of attending them.

The thought of reuniting with Afshi makes me quicken my pace in excitement. I haven't seen her since the wedding. In fact, I haven't seen anyone since then.

The pediatric ward is on the third floor. One can tell the location of the pediatric ward not by the hospital directory pasted on every floor, but by the incessant screaming slicing through the doors.

I wince as I pull the door open, succumbing to the yells and shouts of kids all around. I like children, but I don't like working with them.

Dr. Raksha can be spotted from a kilometer away. Her jet black hair pulled into an unyieldingly tight bun adorned with a fresh flower gajra is a prominent part of her typical appearance.

I quietly wait behind her until she is done screening her current patient.

I clear my throat slightly to make my presence known. Dr. Raksha turns around, her attention still on her clipboard. "Nayab, I swear on my grave, if you administered the wrong vaccination to a patient again, I will personally inoculate you with it as well, allergies or not."

A faint smile tugs at my lips. I hadn't realized how much I missed her bogus threats. She never followed through with them, but her serious demeanor always kept us on our toes, never quite sure if she meant it or not

"It's Mahroosa, actually, but I'll be more than happy to pass along your message to Nayab, Dr. Raksha."

A look of shock overcomes her face before she lifts her head to meet my gaze. "Dr. Durrani, with all due respect, what are you doing here?" she asks in a hushed tone, not wanting to cause a scene.

"I'm here to work," I say, giving her a quizzical look before grabbing the first clipboard from the plastic bin. I can sense her stare penetrating my back, but I ignore it and read through the patient's medical history. She must be confused as to why I am back so soon after getting married.

Uncomplicated acute appendicitis. Treat with penicillin antibiotics. If condition worsens, proceed with an appendectomy.

Although I would probably proceed with the appendectomy without bothering with the antibiotics—because it is more effective—I know Dr. Raksha likes to keep surgery as a last resort.

"Dr. Raksha, I think amoxicillin might—"

She puts a hand up, effectively stopping my treatment plan. "Dr. Durrani, I cannot have you diagnosing patients in my hospital."

I frown in utter confusion. "Why? Dr. Raksha I promise, I'll be on time every day this semester. It's my last before I receive my license."

Dr. Raksha peers at me over her glasses. "That is not why. Do you really not know?"

As my state of bewilderment deepens, the tiniest bit of remorse flickers in her eyes as she says, "By law, I'm not allowed to employ or school you." She places her aged hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. "I'm sorry."

"I–I don't understand," I say, my voice wavering slightly as I struggle to keep the panic at bay.

She checks her watch before answering, "Mahroosa, I wish I could spare the time to explain the statute to you, but I'm afraid I can't." Her expression is heavy with regret. "You are a bright physician, Dr. Durrani, regardless of the circumstances, you should be very proud of your accomplishments."

I can feel my resolve cracking.

"Thank you," I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips. I turn away, heading back towards the stairwell, tears clouding my vision. Keeping my head down, I try to conceal my emotions, afraid of being seen crying

Four and a half years of hard work down the drain. All because of an ounce of saffron.

Words to be Defined

Shahi tukra - South Asian bread pudding

Barfi - traditional South Asian sweet made from condensed milk and sugar, often flavored with nuts or fruits (it is a type of mithai)

Mithai - a category of South Asian sweets, typically made with ingredients like milk, sugar, and flour, often flavored with spices or nuts

Halwa - a traditional South Asian sweet dish, often served for breakfast

Puri - a type of South Asian bread

Maaf kijeye ga - forgive me

Kya matlab - what do you mean?

Sultani - royal

Darmiyani Sarakh - literally means 'middle road/path', but in this context, it is the actual name of the main street of the kingdom

Gajra -  a traditional South Asian flower adornment. Can be comparable to a corsage, only it can also be braided into hair

Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional (yet). The medical information in this book is based on my current knowledge as a pre-medical student, as well as a few internet searches. Feel free to correct me.