Page 9 of The Promised Queen
Her hand comes forward—small, steady, offered like an equal’s.
For a heartbeat, I just look at it. Then I take it. Her grip is firm—no trembling fingers, no limp politeness. It’s as if she’s making sure I know she’s not intimidated.
I glance toward my assistant. He steps forward, handing her my business card. She accepts it without looking, until I add, “This has my assistant’s number and the official line. On the back is my personal number. Call me if you need anything.”
Her eyes flick to me for half a second before she slides the card into her hand.
She turns toward the door. That’s when I notice—her fingers tightening around the card, the edges bending under her grip. She stops. Her back is still to me, but I can feel it. She’s wrestling with something.
When she turns, her eyes are locked on mine. I can see it now—her pride and her necessity pulling in opposite directions.
“I…” She breathes in, the kind of breath you take before stepping into freezing water. “I need money to pay the rent. Today is the last date.”
Her voice is flat, almost mechanical, but I see the cost in her eyes.
I nod once. “It will be taken care of.” No warmth in my tone. No pity, either. Not because I’m cold, because I know she doesn’t want it.
The background check told me her life hasn’t been easy, but paper doesn’t show you how someone holds their head when the ground’s been yanked out from under them. It doesn’t show you how they can sit in front of a king and make demands without blinking.
And here I am—born into this palace, handed everything—and I’m thinking how much stronger she is than me.
Baapu-sa was right. She might help me carry the weight of this crown better.
Not because of love—this is no fairy tale. But because she survives storms I’ve never even had to stand in.
Meher nods once in acknowledgment, turns, and walks away.
And I know this won’t be the last time I watch her leave with her head high.
The difference is, next time, she’ll be leaving as my wife.
CHAPTER 8
The Queen Who Forgot to Be a Mother
DEVRAJ
Rajmata’s eyes are on me before I’ve even fully taken my seat. They’re sharp. Cold.
The kind of eyes that don’t ask questions—they pass judgment before the first word is spoken.
The air around the table is stiff. Veeraj sits to my left, absently running his thumb over the rim of his water glass. Vihaan is across from him, pretending to scroll through his phone but watching me in the reflection of the screen.
Rajmata doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “I hear you’ve made your decision.” Her voice is like marble—smooth, hard, unyielding.
I don’t flinch. “I have.”
“And you intend to go through with it?” Not, do you love her? Or, is she the one? No curiosity about the woman who will stand beside me. Just… logistics. Disapproval wrapped in formality.
“I do,” I say simply.
Her mouth tightens into that thin, precise line that means trouble. “You are the Maharaj of Udaipur. You will not marry a commoner.”
There it is. The verdict. As expected.
“Ma…” Veeraj starts, cautious. “Maybe we should at least—”
“No, beta.” Her tone softens for him—still firm, but warm enough to make him feel heard. “This is not a matter for debate.”
