Page 42 of The Promised Queen
And then, just like that, he rises off the bed.
I watch in complete daze as he moves across the room, bare-backed, his muscles shifting as he picks up the crisp white kurta draped on the chair. My breath catches as he slides it over his broad shoulders, the fabric hugging him before falling gracefully down.
I shouldn’t be staring. I know I shouldn’t. But my eyes don’t listen to reason.
As he buttons the kurta, he glances back at me. His smirk tells me I’ve been caught red-handed.
“It seems you’re enjoying the view, Rani-sa.”
My eyes widen. Heat floods my cheeks. “N-no! I wasn’t—I just—”
He laughs, a rich, low sound that makes my stomach flip. “Your reaction is confirming it.”
Mortified, I grab the pillow and hug it tight to my chest as if it can shield me from his teasing.
He doesn’t let me off easy. He comes back to the bed, leaning down close enough that his presence steals all the air from the room. His thumb brushes across my lips with infuriating tenderness, making me forget how to breathe.
“I like this,” he says quietly. His gaze softens in a way I’ve never seen before. “This real, unfiltered version of you. Be that for me, Meher.”
My throat aches with the weight of words I can’t say.
He presses another kiss to my forehead, slower this time, like a promise. “Always.”
And then he leaves me sitting there—like a fool, clutching the pillow, red as a rose, my heart beating so violently that I swear I’ve just run a marathon.
CHAPTER 33
The Cost of Truth
DEVRAJ
I sit at the long teakwood table in my study, the one that has seen far more arguments than it has meals. The late afternoon sun filters through the jaali windows, painting fractured patterns across the carpet, across Vihaan’s face as he sits across from me, and across Veeraj’s restless hands drumming against the armrest of his chair. The air is heavy with the smell of ink, paper, and sandalwood oil from the diya Sitara must have left burning in the corner.
We’re supposed to be talking numbers. The aftermath of Meher’s speech at the inauguration has been on my mind, but I’ve been trying to judge through facts, not emotion. Vihaan has the reports laid out neatly in front of him. Veeraj has his phone open, scrolling, setting it down again, then picking it up like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“How is the public taking it?” I ask finally, cutting through the silence.
Vihaan clears his throat. “Better than expected. The speech is everywhere, clips and quotes circulating nonstop. The focus has shifted from where she comes from to what she said. People…respect her, bhai-sa. They may not all like her, but they’re listening now.”
“And the markets?” I look at Veeraj, who hasn’t said a word since we sat down.
“Stable,” he says shortly. “For now.”
My eyes linger on Vihaan, reading the quiet tension in the way his fingers curl against the armrest. He’s too still.
“What is it?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer at first. His jaw tightens, then loosens, then tightens again. Finally, he sighs and runs both hands through his hair, something he never does unless he’s conflicted. “As a son,” he begins slowly, “I cannot believe it.” His voice wavers, just once. “But you are my King. And if I stand beside you, which is my duty, then I must remain truthful and loyal to you.”
I straighten in my chair, the pulse in my throat suddenly loud. Something inside me knows what’s coming, but I can’t stop it.
“You remember you asked for the source of the leak,” he continues, “when those articles about your marriage with Maharani came out?”
I nod once, silently.
“I found it.” His eyes close briefly as if bracing himself. “And it’s the same source who leaked the edited photograph to the media.”
The air leaves my lungs. For a long moment, all I can do is stare at him. The walls around me seem to shrink, the silenceringing so sharp I almost hear it. I exhale slowly, my fingers pressing into the polished edge of the table.
