-• a deal or a date •-

[ August 30, 2006 ]

Sara isn't fond of public events.

They demand socialising, forced smiles and fake interest, none of which she fancies. But being married to the Crown Prince of Jaigarh entails roles that don't end at wifely duties alone. A society that's both deeply monarchical and patriarchal binds women to the responsibilities that necessarily revolve around her husband and family, both of which she doesn't consider her own. Despite being a Rajawat she couldn't belong there, in the family that she was born into, how would she ever become a Chauhan, the family she was married into without taking her consent into consideration?

A husband who only thinks of her as a decoration.

His five siblings, deeply traumatised due to their parents and growing under the strict guidance of their eldest brother.

Then his father who can't stop mourning over his first love.

This family was in shambles before she came here.

How would they ever accept her pieces when theirs are already struggling to fit together?

"Your highness,"

Sara looks up from the book in her hands. "Yes, Bhoomi?"

"This was delivered to the palace by His highness' secretary," Bhoomi walks in and places the pale pink box at the lady's feet on the diwan. Keeping the book aside, Sara sits straight and takes the box on her lap, gently lifting the lid and placing it on the lampstand. Bhoomi stands on the side, curious eyes peering into the box, excited hands fiddling with each other. It's the first time her royal highness has received a gift from her husband, as her personal maid, Bhoomi couldn't be happier. Sara glances at Bhoomi, shaking her head in amusement when she sees the grin on the young girl's face. Only to tease her anticipation, Sara begins taking out of the frills one by one.

Agitated, Bhoomi clicks her tongue. "Oh ho, your highness, please do not play with me now."

Sara chuckles and removes the bunch of frills, stopping when her fingers touch the matte white paper enclosed over a fabric. She peels the paper off, revealing a heavily studded white saree.

Bhoomi gasps.

"Is this what you'll be wearing for the function tonight, your highness!?" She shrieks happily.

Sara strokes the encrusted fabric beneath her fingers. "Looks like it,"

"His Highness know your taste," Bhoomi kneels in front of the diwan, hesitantly reaching out to touch the expensive saree. "It's so beautiful. You'll look so pretty wearing it." Beaming brown eyes look up at her.

Sara hums softly.

"Oh, that looks like an invite to the venue," distracted, Sara looks down at Bhoomi's hands that eagerly unfold the envelope and pull out the invite. Bhoomi's mouth falls agape reading it. "It's some minister's daughter's birthday! And we only have three hours to get you ready! Oh my God! I'll get the girls, your highness!" And she's off on her feet like they gained wheels immediately.

Sara picks up the invite fallen in the box, reading the venue and the time. She places it beside her, looking back down at the saree. Her heart stutters. He had been acting strange ever since that day in the library. They still fight. They still argue. He's still infuriating. But his eyes, it's his eyes that make her restless. They follow her, they stare at her, as if they're devoted to her as long as they can see. The change is unwanted. He's an attractive man. She's young and good enough to look at from the society's standards. They're married. They share a room, a bed. Something catastrophic awaits them both. Something she's determined to avoid.

Her fingers fiddle with the beads of her nuptial chain as she exhales a deep breath. If it comes to that, if she ever finds her physical attraction towards him on the brink of its patience, she'll remind herself the circumstances she married this man in. They can't ever be more than partners, more than an arrangement benefiting his business and her limited freedom.

Broken from her thoughts, she looks up with a startle as Bhoomi and a flock of maids file inside her room, eager to get her ready for the function. She gets her haircare done while the bathtub is being prepared for her. After a long bath, the girls make her sit in front of the dressing table and proceed with her skincare, manicure and pedicure. She wears the saree with Bhoomi's help. It's heavy and needed two extra hands to hold it together.

For her hairstyle, the girls debate between three strand Dutch braid and a loose updo, settling on the latter since Sara has long and silky hair but they aren't much thick as preferred for the braid. She sits through the torturously long make up and hairstyle session, finally allowed to get up once she is ready.

The girls whisper and giggle between themselves, admiring the wife of their Crown Prince for all that she's worth it. No wonder the cold Prince married her, she emanates a warm glow that'd melt the toughest of ice.

Sara stares at herself in the mirror. She wears white solely because she is exiled from the beauty of colours. She doesn't deserve it any longer. Not after she saw her sister, the only woman who brought colours in her life dying cruelly, losing everything that ever made her colorful.

But this whimsical, ivory saree bejeweled with pearls and crystals all over, and the embellished full sleeved blouse hugs her body, surrounds her frame like they are made for her, as if their existence has reached its purpose. This saree wasn't picked on a whim. It wasn't just glanced at and sent to the counter. It was sought after, it was found, it was even imagined on her, and then selected at last. Nobody except for someone who really looks at her, knows her, and finds her beautiful would be able to specifically pick this out.

She nibbles on her lower lip as a consuming breath overwhelms her lungs.

A knock on the door catches her attention. The girls quieten down at the sight of a man dressed in all black standing at the doorstep. Sara looks at the man in question, waiting for him to explain his purpose of visit.

"His Highness has sent a car to pick you up. I'm here to drive you to the venue. Please don't forget to bring along the invite. I'll be waiting near the car." Then he bows and retreats politely.

Bhoomi takes possession of Sara's beaded clutch, the other maid grabs the make-up products essential for retouch and they escort their lady to the car waiting outside. The young chauffeur puts the stuff in the trunk of the car, opens the door for Sara and takes the beaded clutch from her personal maid, handing it to her once she is comfortably settled inside. He swiftly closes the door and jogs past the bonnet, sliding inside behind the wheel, pulling out of the premises shortly after.

Sara tugs at the statement pearl choker awkwardly since she's not used to wearing jewelleries. She's thankful the girls evaded those heavy earrings reasoning the choker is enough to compliment the look. But she couldn't say no to the bracelet they made her wear. It now sits firmly wrapped around her wrist.

"We're here,"

Reaching the location, she submits the invite at the entry point and is immediately escorted inside the hotel suite booked under her husband's name for the night.

As soon as the door opens, Yuvraaj looks away from the full length mirror and stops abruptly at her sight, the dark onyx eyes unable to part ways from his wife's willowy figure. Sara clears her throat, avoiding his eyes as if the room interests her more than the handsome man wearing a tailored grey suit in front of her.

Sensing the awkward tension in the room, his secretary, Zoya drops the tie on the couch and excuses herself out of the room, closing the door gently after her. Yuvraaj's head snaps to the door, half whispering his worry over the tie that now lies abandoned on the couch.

"The party will commence at eight o'clock. It's seven. We still have an hour. You can sit here or in the bedroom inside." He informs her.

She nods softly, making her way towards the bedroom to get away from the man.

Yuvraaj lets go of a troubled breath.

She is claustrophobic but he found it hard to breath just now.

He picks up the tie from the couch and walks to the door to call his secretary back only to get disappointed noticing the empty hallway. Grunting under his breath, he walks to his phone on the dressing table and calls the woman. Her phone rings and he hears it only a few feet away from him. Closing his eyes in frustration, he hangs up and drops the phone on the surface, deciding to do it himself. So he swings the tie around his nape, does a clumsy work of his fingers, manages to tie a knot, and sighs when it doesn't adjust. He tries again. Gives up halfway. Tries again. Huffs irritatedly when the tie ends up looking crooked and does it all over again.

Hearing the paddle of feet come out of the bedroom, his eyes flicker to the woman walking to the open kitchenette to fill herself a glass of water. Ignoring her, he focuses back on the task in hand.

Sara watches him struggle as she takes slow sips of water. After his seventh attempt that annoys her too, she places the empty glass back in its place and approaches the man fighting a war with a piece of fabric.

Angered at the umpteenth failed tie, Yuvraaj violently tugs and snaps the knot open, stopping with a jolt when slender hands take over and gently undo the knot. He inhales deeply, agitated before, enticed now, her scent invading the air he breaths in. He looks down at her, dropping his hand to his side, watching her make a quick, skilled work of her fingers, tying a perfect knot of the tie. She adjusts it accordingly, fixes his collar and flattens any creases and folds.

"There, you're good to go now." She looks up, taking a step back to get away from his intense eyes and knocking her feet into the dressing table behind.

He reacts reflexively.

His hands sieze the bare flesh of her waist and he tugs her back to himself.

Sara's hands fly to land on his shoulders. Hands fist around the fabric of his dress shirt. She swallows, lashes fluttering wildly as she raises her gaze to meet his. Dark eyes relinquish the lost intensity. She tries pushing him away. He doesn't allow any distance between them.

"Let go," she says firmly.

"Did you like the saree?"

"I'm wearing it." She tells him.

"That doesn't answer my question."

She looks up at him. "Did you buy it?"

"Yes." He replies.

"Did you..... choose it?"

"Yes." He whispers.

"You shouldn't have."

"I shouldn't have." He agrees, breathing so roughly his chest brushes against her.

"I thought you hate me."

"I hate you." He nods. "God, I hate you so much."

"You don't do this for the person you hate."

He pulls away, hands tearing off her body like her skin burnt him. She spins and strides back into the bedroom, closing the door and leaning on it to normalise her breathing.

Outside in the living room, Yuvraaj loosens his tie, releasing a strangled sigh before he starts pacing back and forth to distract himself from the thoughts of her.

He closes his eyes.

And one memory knocks back.

"Breath, Sara. Breath."

Fuck.

Fuck.

He looks towards the bedroom.

Is reminded of her behind the closed door, wearing the saree he chose for her and realises he is doomed.

He finds her attractive.

He finds her attractive enough to want her, kiss her, touch her.

He's doomed.

🕛

[ P R E S E N T ]

Yuvraaj glances towards the elevator the second time. He's five minutes early but that was ten minutes ago. Now it's five minutes past eight and there's no sign of her. She knows he hates tardiness, especially during professional encounters.

"Are you ready to order, your majesty?"

The manager asks softly, since he was told to return at eight o'clock. Yuvraaj shakes his head, roaming his gaze around the empty floor of the tower restaurant booked exclusively for his dinner tonight with the woman who's already five minutes late to the meeting.

He picks up the file on the table and reads through the clauses again. This is the final offer he's giving her. She can take it or she can go jump into a boiling lava for all he cares. He's not humoring anymore negotiations from her side.

The elevator finally chimes notifying an arrival.

He places the file down, his gaze dropping to the stilettoes clad feet that walk out from the elevator, rising agonizingly slow past her body to meet her eyes. She's wearing an offshoulder white dress with a ruffle on the side that unveils to a thigh high slit. A semi formal evening dress, perfect for the night that isn't exactly business oriented but has no personal agenda.

He wasn't exactly aiming for a dinner night with her when he called her to meet. But he had meetings all day that couldn't be rescheduled anymore and thus, he had no choice but to fix her an appointment in the late evening, at usual dinner time.

"Good evening,"

He nods, motioning her to a seat across from him at the table.

Sara pulls herself an empty chair and sits down, placing her purse on the vacant chair next to her.

"Here," Yuvraaj forwards her the file holding the contract.

She receives it and leans back, legs crossing elegantly as she opens the file and reads through it carefully. Yuvraaj goes to pick up the glass of water, his gaze accidentally falling to the bare flesh of her thigh before he picks up the glass almost aggressively, taking a sip while staring outside the glass wall.

"Why do you think I'm the perpetrator of the crime happening against Mr. Sehgal?" She asks unexpectedly.

He puts the glass down. "If it was a thought, I'd be still doubting it. I know it's you."

"But you don't have any proof."

"Intuition." He shrugs.

She looks up at him and chuckles, resuming reading the contract. "Never thought a man so practical who lives by a rule book would ever say he believes something because his intuition says so."

I've always went astray from my usual calculations when trying to understand you.

He restrains himself from saying those words, instead indulging the woman in a witty reply, "Not my first time. Wouldn't be for you either if you hadn't divorced me."

She eyes him in amusement. "You're still sore about that?"

"You shot me."

"You deserved it."

Taken aback hearing her answer, he leans in shock. "I deserved to get shot?"

She snorts. "The bullet barely grazed your waist. Stop being so dramatic."

"Dramatic!?" He snaps. She blinks, stunned at his reaction. "I was bleeding, Sara. My hands were red, they were soaking in my own blood. And what did you do? You went to my desk and cleaned the blood stains from the papers with the tissues, because that was your priority, not your bleeding husband kneeling and whimpering on the floor." Eyes red, he glares at the woman with brimming hatred in his heart. "I know the marriage never mattered to you, that I never mattered to you, but you were heartless enough to shoot me, and then leave me a bloody mess on the floor while you happily went to move on in your life."

"Happily?" She repeats in disbelief.

"Don't pretend you weren't eager to get rid of me." He snarls.

"I'm not pretending." She states. "While I wasn't happy, I was free. You confined me to the walls of your Mahal and then you left me. I was your wife, Yuvraaj. What did I receive in those six months bearing that title? Did you ever stop to think there's a woman in your house who only has you to depend on? What did you give me for me to rethink my decision of divorcing you!?"

He falls quiet.

"Exactly my point." She grits out. "Stop acting like our failed marriage was my fault. Stop acting like you didn't treat me as a liability, fuck that you even called me a liability. You restricted me from getting a job, you put tabs on my day to day activities, didn't allow me to go out without your permission and paraded me around at your high profile events like I was some God damn showpiece! No woman in her all five senses functioning normally would ever stay with a bigoted arsehole like you. You did not consider my feelings then, you do not consider my feelings now." She says gruffly. "I'll tell you what's bothering you, Yuvraaj. It's the fact that I divorced you, that I left you is what actually matters to you. Because you're an egoistic, self centred, pretentious man who only cares about his perspective alone. You shun people who think differently from you, Yuvraaj. People like you end up alone and that's no one's fault." She gets up from the table, grabbing her handbag along. "Six months!" She shows him the file. "I accept the clauses. I'll pay you the amount in six months. Now I shall take my leave, my secretary will bring you the signed copy of the contract. Thank you for tonight. Bon appetite." She walks off briskly.

Yuvraaj sits quietly in his chair, staring at the paper towels stuffed clumsily in the holder. He leans forward and fixes them.

The manager reappears, having witnessed the heated exchange from his desk, reluctance in his tone as he asks, "Should we serve you now, sir?"

Yuvraaj shakes his head and leaves the restaurant. During his drive back home, her one sentence resonates in his head.

"People like you end up alone and that's no one's fault."