Page 6 of The Promised Queen
The clock ticks again. My pulse is louder. I have no idea what’s going on, but one thing is painfully, terrifyingly clear.
My life just took a turn I never saw coming.
CHAPTER 5
The Girl Who Didn’t Want the Crown
DEVRAJ
She’s smaller than I expected.
Not in height, exactly, but more in the way she seems to fold in on herself, like she’s learned over the years to take up less space than she’s allowed.
Her eyes are wide, the kind of startled-wide you see when someone hears a plate crash in a silent room.
I just told her we have to get married.
And from the way she’s staring at me, you’d think I’d just suggested we rob a bank together.
“I’m sorry—what?” she asks, her voice sharp, like she’s testing whether I’m joking.
I repeat myself, softer this time, because the first time sounded too much like a command.
Her brows pull together, her frown deepening. She stands, straight-backed but visibly tense. “Why should I marry you?”
Her pitch is higher now, emotional, defensive. I almost want to laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so far removed from the way women usually react to me.
Princesses, nobles, wealthy heiresses—they spend years circling my orbit, adjusting their smiles, perfecting the way they address me as “Raja-ji” while imagining what my surname would look like next to theirs.
And here is Meher Sharma. Middle-class. Simple clothes, not worn for fashion but for use. And clearly, from the way her dupatta is mended at the edge, someone who knows the value of every rupee. And she’s asking why she should marry me.
If she knew the answer in one word, it would be money. But something in her eyes tells me that would be the fastest way to lose her. Self-respect clings to her like a second skin.
So I don’t answer.
Instead, I just watch her until she finally sits back down—reluctantly, like she’s conceding nothing. “I apologize,” she says, but it’s the kind of apology people give when they don’t mean a word of it.
I lean back, studying her. “I don’t understand, though. Could you elaborate?” She says softly.
Her hands tighten in her lap. She’s not timid, but she’s not reckless either. She takes a second before answering. “Your grandmother saved my father’s life once,” I say, my voice even. “In return, she asked us to be married.”
Her frown deepens, confusion etched between her brows. “I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t, either,” I admit, but low enough that the words are meant for me alone.
“Why would you want to marry me? I clearly don’t belong here.” Her hands are moving now, her voice more animated,her sentences spilling into one another. She’s not calculating her tone for diplomacy; she’s just speaking what’s in her head.
“My father gave his word,” I tell her. “So even if you choose not to marry me, I won’t marry anyone else. If someday you need me, let me know.”
Her head tilts, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re saying I’ve… reserved you?”
I almost smile. Almost. “I’m saying I’m yours. I’m supposed to be your husband—even if you don’t want me. Which I will completely understand, considering you didn’t know about this… pact. Or vow. Or whatever it was.”
I watch her face cycle through a range of emotions—disbelief, wariness, something I can’t quite name.
“I… need some time,” she says finally, her voice softer now.
She rises, clutching the royal decree in her hand like it might vanish if she loosens her grip. Her movements are automatic, distracted, her mind clearly somewhere else already.
