Page 25 of The Promised Queen
We both stand, chairs scraping softly against the marble floor. He adjusts his watch, then glances at me, his face suddenly earnest.
“You deserve happiness, Devraj,” he says quietly. “If she makes you even a little bit happy, don’t screw this up.”
The words sit heavy between us. He says them lightly, like a friend joking, but I know he means every syllable.
I hum, walking beside him toward the door. “It was good seeing you,” he adds with a smile.
I nod. “I can’t really say the same, you know.” A smirk tugs at my lips.
He bursts into laughter, the sound echoing down the hall. “Of course.”
I watch him go, the corners of my mouth softening. Dhruv. Annoying, relentless, infuriating Dhruv.
But when the darkest years swallowed me whole, when grief and duty pressed so hard on my chest I could barely breathe, he was the one who refused to let me sink. He sat with me through silences, dragged me out when the walls closed in, and reminded me—again and again—that I was human first, king second.
Maybe that’s why I tolerate him. Maybe that’s why, despite everything, I can’t imagine this life without him poking and prodding his way into it.
And maybe, though I’ll never say it to his face, I’m glad he’s still here.
CHAPTER 20
A Lotus for Me
MEHER
The bright stage lights blur into golden halos as I take my position in the center. My palms are clammy, though the air-conditioning is on full blast. The faint smell of roses and sandalwood wafts in from the garlands decorating the NGO’s hall, but none of it grounds me. My heartbeat is a wild, nervous drum.
Charity performances are never new to me, but this one… I don’t know why I feel so exposed, as though the world will see every emotion written across my face. My ghungroos jingle faintly as I adjust my feet, eyes flitting over the audience, preparing myself.
And then I see him.
Raja-sa.
Sitting in the front row, not three feet away from the stage. Regal as ever in a crisp ivory kurta, his presence demands attention without him saying a word. But it isn’t his clothes, or his stature, or the way others around him look twice in recognition. It’s his eyes. His eyes that hold mine—steady, unwavering, with a softness I am wholly unprepared for.
My breath hitches. I almost miss my cue.
The music begins, and I force my body to move. The rhythm takes me by the wrist and drags me forward, step by step, spin by spin. Each beat echoes in my chest, grounding me. My hands stretch outward, my fingers curling into mudras I’ve practiced a thousand times. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, the jingling of my ghungroos blending with the tabla, until I lose myself in the melody.
But I am not alone in it. His gaze follows me.
Every time I turn, every sway of my arm, every bend of my body—it is as if he is the mirror reflecting me back at myself. I dance for the audience, yes, but tonight… it feels like I am dancing for him. Only him.
By the time the final note fades, my chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. Silence hangs in the air for a heartbeat. And then, as if someone broke a spell, the hall erupts into thunderous applause.
People rise to their feet—teachers, children, volunteers—all clapping, cheering, whistling even. My skin warms with embarrassment and pride all at once. And then I notice him stand.
Raja-sa rises with deliberate grace, walking towards the stage. My pulse leaps, my eyes widening as the crowd parts for him. He climbs the steps slowly, each stride measured, and when he reaches me, he holds something in his hand.
A lotus.
The pale pink petals seem almost surreal under the stage lights. He extends it toward me, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes hold a spark I cannot name.
“You were incredible, Meher,” he says, his voice low but carrying, reverent almost.
The world around us blurs, sounds dimming to a faint hum. I feel heat crawl up my neck, spreading to my cheeks. I lower my gaze, clutching the stem of the lotus with trembling fingers. “Thank you, Raja-sa,” I murmur, my voice embarrassingly small.
The crowd watches, but I don’t care. Not when my heart feels like it is no longer mine.
