Page 29 of The Promised Queen
Her eyes widen slightly, startled, and then her smile softens. It reaches her eyes this time, and for a moment, the crowded ballroom ceases to exist.
“Dance with me,” I say. It isn’t a request.
Her nod is hesitant, but it comes. I take her hand, cool and delicate in mine, and lead her toward the center of the floor. The crowd parts instinctively, whispers following us, but I pay them no mind. My hand rests on the small of her back as the music swells, and when she places her other hand lightly on my shoulder, it feels as if something in me has settled—finally, inevitably.
She moves with grace, every step perfectly aligned with mine. Yet beneath the practiced elegance, there is something raw, something electric that sparks between us. Her eyes meet mine and hold, unblinking, and the world blurs at the edges. My hand tightens at her waist, drawing her infinitesimally closer, and her breath hitches. It is nothing, a sound drowned by violins, but I hear it. I feel it.
The dance becomes less about steps and more about connection—the way her body fits against mine, the unspoken dialogue in our locked gaze. She twirls, her lehenga flaring around her like a turquoise flame, and when she returns to my arms, I catch her a beat too early, unwilling to let her drift even an inch farther away. Her cheeks flush, whether from exertion or something else, I cannot tell. But I know one thing—every man and woman watching us now will never forget this moment. Neither will I.
When the music fades, applause erupts, but all I notice is the way her hand lingers in mine a second too long before she attempts to step back. Not yet. Not tonight.
I guide her through the crowd, introducing her to those who matter—business leaders, politicians, diplomats. They greet her with polite smiles, some with thinly veiled curiosity. To them she is still new, still a question mark. But beside me, she holds herself with quiet dignity, answering softly, smiling just enough. And I find myself watching her more than I should, pride swelling with every word she speaks.
After a while, I notice the way her shoulders slump, how she discreetly adjusts the heavy crown woven into her hair. Tired. She won’t say it aloud, but I see it. I always see it.
“Let’s go,” I murmur against her ear.
“Where?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I take her hand in mine and lead her through the side doors, away from the glitter and the noise, down the quieter corridors of the palace hotel. She doesn’t protest, only follows, the click of her heels echoing against marble.
When we reach her room, I push the door open and step inside with her. She turns, a question in her eyes, but I silence it by reaching for her crown. Gently, carefully, I unfasten it and lift it away, setting it aside on the dresser. “Too heavy for your first gala,” I murmur, my voice lower than I intend.
My fingers graze the side of her neck as I free the last pin, and I feel her shiver beneath my touch. Her breath catches—just once, sharp and quick—but it is enough to unravel me. My handlingers a fraction longer than necessary, and desire coils hot and insistent in my chest.
I step back. I have to. Because if I don’t, if I let myself stay close, I will lose control.
The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we don’t say. Her gaze drops to the floor, then flickers back up to me, questioning, daring, and something unspoken hangs in the air like static.
I take another step back, forcing the air into my lungs. Not tonight. Not like this.
But the thought of her—her turquoise silhouette, her breath trembling against my fingertips—will haunt me long after the gala ends.
CHAPTER 23
Thorns in the Garden
MEHER
The garden is the only place in this palace where I can breathe without feeling watched.
The sound of the fountain trickling into the marble basin, the sway of the bougainvillea against the breeze, the little sparrows hopping around the stone pathway—it all grounds me in a way nothing else does.
I sit on the bench tucked under a gulmohar tree, letting the branches filter the sunlight across my face. The breeze carries a faint smell of jasmine, and I close my eyes for a second. For the first time since this morning, my chest feels lighter. I almost forget the palace walls and the weight of expectations pressing down on me. Almost.
A crunch of footsteps on gravel makes me open my eyes. Rajmata.
Her posture is as rigid as the ivory cane she carries, her saree perfectly draped, pearls glinting on her neck. The look in her eyes is enough to make anyone straighten up, but I don’t move. Not today.
She stops in front of me, her gaze sweeping over me as if weighing my very existence.
“You have bewitched him,” she says finally, her voice low, cutting. “But kings don’t marry dancers, Meher. They discard them.”
The words slice through me before I even have time to build a wall. My throat tightens, heat creeps into my face. Bewitched him? As if my every breath, my every glance, is a carefully crafted trap. As if love, respect, companionship could never be real between Devraj and me. Only manipulation.
For a heartbeat, I want to shrink back. To stay silent. That’s what people expect from women like me. A dancer—someone who can be admired, applauded, but never truly respected. But no. Not anymore.
I stand up, my palms slightly trembling but my voice steady when I speak.
