Page 47 of The Promised Queen
“I hereby strip you of any and every right over the business and politics of the royal family. You will have no say in what the crown does from this day forward. You may remain in this palace, because my siblings have committed no crime that I should punish them by tearing their mother away. But remember this—” his voice sharpens like steel drawn from a sheath “—if I hear another word, another conspiracy, against me, against the queen, against the crown—you will be moved to the royal villa, and you will spend the rest of your life there. Alone.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I stare at him, my heart thundering in my chest. And then realization crashes over me. He wasn’t putting this burden on me. He was lifting it from me. By asking me here, in front of them, to repeat what I said in private, he makes sure no fingerever points at me. That none of his siblings can ever say I decided alone, thatMeher punished our mother. He is shielding me even as he gives me a voice.
He made me speak first—not to trap me, not to burden me—but to protect me. To ensure no one, not even his siblings, could ever accuse me of cruelty. He took the weight on himself. He carried the punishment on his shoulders, as king, as son, so that my hands would remain clean.
And yet, he still honored my words. Still respected my forgiveness, even when he chose differently.
My eyes sting. My chest aches.
He turns to me then, and when his gaze meets mine, the storm in me quiets. He smiles softly—gentle, unguarded. A smile that tells me everything he cannot say here. That I am safe. That he will always stand between me and the world’s cruelty. That I am not alone.
And it hits me—hard, unrelenting—that I love him.
Not because he protects me, though he does. Not because he fights for me, though he always will. But because of the way he looks at me—as though I am not a mistake, not a burden, not the wrong woman in the wrong palace. Because in his eyes, I am enough. More than enough.
I love him because he makes me laugh when I least expect it. Because he listens, truly listens, even when I am clumsy with words. Because he never once asked me to be anyone other than myself. Because when he calls me Rani-sa, my heart forgets to beat.
And because I know, deep down, that without him, my life would feel like it had no anchor. I would drift, endlessly. He grounds me.
My chest feels too small for the rush of it.
He is still smiling at me when he ends the session, his voice calm now. “This matter is closed.”
I can barely breathe. My hands tremble in my lap, hidden from sight. He has no idea what he’s done to me, how irrevocably he has shifted the ground beneath my feet.
For the first time in my life, I feel not just chosen, not just defended—but truly, deeply seen.
And I know with absolute certainty—I will love him: quietly, fiercely, hopelessly.
Forever.
CHAPTER 36
Stilled in Paint
DEVRAJ
The hall smells faintly of turpentine and polished wood, and the light filtering in through the high windows glows golden, like a blessing from the heavens. The room has always felt sacred to me—not a temple, but something akin to it. Portrait day. A tradition I grew up watching, never questioning. Every generation of my family has their likeness committed to canvas—stilled forever in oil and pigment, hung alongside the others in the gallery that smells of dust and memory.
As a boy, I used to run down that gallery with careless feet, eyes darting over the serious faces of men and women who shared my blood. They always looked so distant, so cold, staring down as if I would never measure up. I remember wondering why they never smiled. Why they seemed carved in stone, not flesh and blood. Today, standing here, I think of those childhood questions. And today, for the first time, I have an answer.
Meher fidgets on the cushioned chair placed in the center of the hall, her back far too stiff, her eyes darting anywhere but at me. She looks… small. Out of place. A wild bird caged in silk. Her fingers worry the embroidered border of her dupatta, tugging and twisting as though the threads will give her courage.I almost step in to still her hands, but I stop myself. She wouldn’t thank me for pointing it out.
The painter is fussing with his palette, muttering to himself, and I smooth down the front of my sherwani before I let my hand rest gently on her shoulder, the way he instructed. Tradition demands that I stand while she sits, a composition of power and poise. Husband and wife. King and queen.
But she shifts beneath my hand, restless, craning her neck to look up at me with those dark, questioning eyes. “Raja-sa…” she whispers, her lips curving into the beginnings of a pout. “Do we really have to sit like this? Can’t we just… I don’t know… take a picture? Like normal people do?”
A laugh escapes me before I can help it, soft and unguarded. Trust Meher to bring up modernity in the middle of centuries-old rituals. Her ability to strip away formality in a single breath is one of the things I admire most about her, though I’d never admit that aloud. But I also can't expect her to understand these rituals considering she hasn't been a royal forever.
“A picture?” I echo, raising a brow. “And what would that do in the long run? A photo fades, pixels blur, technology becomes obsolete. But paint…” I glance at the easel where the artist is mixing colors, “…paint lasts.”
She huffs, her nose wrinkling in that way that makes my chest feel unexpectedly light. “But pictures are quicker. We wouldn’t have to sit frozen like statues for hours.”
I tilt my head, studying her profile as she complains. The stubborn set of her jaw, the way her lashes flutter when she tries not to look directly at me; it all amuses me endlessly. She thinks she’s resisting, but she doesn’t see how her defiance only draws me in further.
“Rani-sa,” I murmur low enough that only she can hear, “you think standing here with my hand on your shoulder is a burden? For me, it is nothing but… privilege.”
