Page 28 of The Promised Queen
My head snaps toward her, my chest tightening. Breathless. “Why?”
She chuckles softly, but her eyes glisten as she stares into the night. “If I were to die right now… no one would care.” Her voice cracks slightly, but she keeps it steady. “I’ve spent my entire life resenting life.” She smiles sadly, the wind causes her hair to blow; she looks beautifully…broken. “Did you know,” she says, her eyes closed now, “I have got not a single call from my father, not a single word of… anything, after I left. You gave him everything, Raja-sa. Everything he ever wanted. He doesn’t need me anymore.” She smiles—a fragile, heartbreaking smile. “So thank you for that.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I want to comfort her, but words fail me.
“I have no one who would mourn for me,” she whispers, almost to herself. Then she lets out a shaky laugh. “Not a single soul.”
Something inside me shatters.
“Are you forgetting me?” The words escape me before I realize I’ve spoken them. My voice is low, rough.
She laughs softly, almost bitterly. “Why would you mourn for me? You could always remarry. Your mother would finally be happy.”
I don’t think. I don’t stop myself. I turn to her fully, my hands reaching out. Gently but firmly, I turn her face toward mine, and before I can second-guess, I pull her into my arms.
Her body stiffens in surprise, but I don’t let go. My chin rests against her hair, the scent of her—jasmine and something uniquely hers—flooding me.
“I would mourn for you, Meher,” I whisper into her hair. The words tremble with a truth I didn’t know I carried.
“Why,” she whispers.
“I made it clear on day one, Meher.” I run my hand through her hair. “I am yours, and I will always be.”
The promise feels different tonight. Not because of my Baapu-sa. Not because of duty. But because I want to be hers.
Because I cannot imagine not seeing her. Not hearing her. Not knowing her.
“I would care, Meher,” I repeat, holding her tighter.
Her arms stay at her sides, unmoving. But I feel the damp warmth of her tears seeping into my kurta. The faintest sniffle against my chest.
She doesn’t hug me back, but she doesn’t pull away either. And maybe this—this stillness, this fragile acceptance—is what she needs.
And maybe it’s what I need, too.
To let her know she means more to me than either of us realized. To admit that I don’t have the answers. Only this—her, here, in my arms under a sky that suddenly feels less empty.
CHAPTER 22
The Scene That Stole the Night
DEVRAJ
The ballroom glitters with chandeliers, their golden light bouncing off crystal glasses and sequined gowns. Every corner of the palace hotel tonight hums with conversations—politics disguised as pleasantries, handshakes weighed heavier than the champagne being served. The gala is more than my mother’s sixtieth birthday; it is a showcase of power, a reminder that the Rajmata still commands respect beyond the palace walls.
I stand near the bar, discussing expansion strategies with Abhimaan Malhotra, one of the most respected CEOs in the country, and his wife, Aditi Malhotra. Abhimaan’s reputation precedes him—calculated, sharp, a man whose words carry the weight of markets. But here, with Aditi by his side, he is softer, warmer, his eyes lighting up when she interjects with a thoughtful observation. I find myself respecting them more than I expected. Rudraksh’s sister, I realize. Rudraksh—my only ally in an industry where everyone else sees me as competition to undercut. We don’t consider each other rivals, and that unspoken understanding has worked in our favor. We both know that if one day we do align, it will no longer be business—it will be a monopoly. That kind of power is dangerous,and perhaps that’s why we both stay where we are, waiting, watching, never moving until there is a need.
As I listen to Abhimaan speak about the shifting dynamics of luxury hospitality, my gaze flickers across the room—and freezes.
Meher.
She has just stepped in, and the noise of the gala, the chatter, the laughter, all fade for a heartbeat. My breath catches before I can stop it. She wears turquoise tonight, a lehenga embroidered so finely it seems to shimmer with every step she takes. But it isn’t the outfit—it’s her. The way the soft fabric clings to her waist, the sheer dupatta resting delicately across her shoulder, her long hair falling loose in waves that brush against her skin. Her jewelry glints under the chandeliers, but none of it dares compete with the light in her eyes. She looks ethereal. Untouchable.
And everyone sees it. I don’t have to turn to know—the air shifts when she enters. Conversations falter, and eyes follow her. I should be proud. She is, after all, mine. But the burn that rises in my chest is unfamiliar, unwelcome. Jealousy. The urge to shield her from the stares, to claim her in front of them all, tightens inside me until I can no longer remain rooted.
I excuse myself mid-sentence, ignoring Abhimaan’s amused glance, and stride across the marble floor toward her. She notices me almost instantly, her lips curving into the smallest smile before she leans in and whispers, “I don’t want to create a scene, Raja-sa. It’s your mother’s birthday. I only came here for your sake. After this, I’ll leave quietly.”
Her words should soothe me, but they don’t. I tilt my head closer, catching the faint trace of jasmine in her perfume, and murmur, “You are my queen, Meher. Youarethe scene.”
