𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧

84⚚ Perfect love

"Why are you following me?" Amaira asked, moving swiftly into the kitchen to clean the mess—mess she already knew exactly who caused and how.

Viraj stood at the entrance, lips in a pout, looking every bit like a guilty child about to get scolded by his favorite person.

Amaira gathered her hair up, tying it into a messy bun, and Viraj nearly staggered. His hand flew to his chest dramatically.

Damn, I'm dead. Why is my wife so beautiful this early in the morning? And those sleepy eyes? Lord, help me.

Just watching her twist her hair into a bun was enough to get his entire heart worked up.

Poor lovesick king.

"Why are you standing there like a statue, staring at me, coconut head?" Amaira teased, walking out of the kitchen after finishing her cleaning.

Viraj instantly followed like a loyal puppy. "Baby..." he whined, dragging the word as though it might soften her heart.

She hummed in response, walking upstairs, calm and unbothered.

Viraj sighed, lowering his head slightly, his voice soft and guilty. "I'm sorry, love."

Amaira, now taking out fresh clothes for her shower, turned slightly, arching a brow. "Why?" she asked, her tone innocent, as though she had no idea what he meant.

Viraj groaned dramatically, his broad shoulders slumping as though she had just stabbed him. "I'm sorry for coming home late, baby. I'm sorry for walking away after an argument. I'm sorry for making my serene highness cry. I'm sorry for existing in a way that bothers my moon..."

Amaira hid her smile, folding her clothes neatly, pretending to be lost in her task.

But Viraj wasn't done. He stepped closer, lowering his head slightly, trying to catch her eyes. "I'm sorry for every single second you felt alone. I'm sorry for every tear that dared touch your cheek."

"I'm sorry for every heartbeat I wasn't here to hear, every sigh I wasn't here to soothe." His lips formed a small pout. "Baby, punish me, but don't ignore your peasant."

Amaira hummed in acknowledgment, still refusing to meet his eyes, holding her clothes up like they were suddenly the most important thing in the world.

Viraj let out another dramatic sigh, clutching his chest with both hands. "Look at me, moonlight. If you don't forgive me, I'll die right here. Right in your closet."

"People will say, 'Here lies King Viraj, taken down not by war, not by enemies, but by his wife's silence.' What a tragic end for such a handsome king."

Amaira bit her lip to stop her laugh, shaking her head as she searched for a matching dupatta.

Viraj wasn't letting up. He quickly crouched down in front of her, kneeling as if he were about to propose again. He clasped his hands together, exaggerating the puppy eyes.

"Please, my baby love, my gentle queen, my moon, my heart, my air, my reason for living... forgive me. I'll do anything. You want extra shopping? Done. You want your favorite sweets at midnight? I'll run. You want me to sleep outside the door with Bhageera tonight? I will."

Amaira glanced down at him finally, amused. "Hm. Sounds tempting."

He gasped. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

She lifted her chin, pretending to be thoughtful. "A little."

Viraj groaned again, falling back onto his knees, spreading his arms wide. "I knew it. My wife is merciless. My baby likes watching me suffer. And here I am, bleeding love all over the floor."