Page 5 of The Promised Queen
The King Said What?
MEHER
I’ve never been past the outer gates of the Udaipur City Palace before.
It’s the kind of place you only see from a distance when you’re late for the bus, or in a newspaper when the royal family is hosting some cultural event. It always feels… untouchable. Like it belongs to another world. One where people wear diamonds casually, and I’m here worrying about whether the safety pin on my dupatta will survive the day.
The guard at the main gate barely looks at me until I show him the royal decree.
It’s strange, watching his eyes flicker with recognition of the stamp, then seeing his whole posture straighten like he’s suddenly in a historical drama.
He waves me through with a crisp, “Proceed inside, ma’am.”
And, just like that, I’m walking into the kind of place that smells like polished wood and history.
The marble floor is cool beneath my sandals. My eyes keep darting everywhere—intricate jharokha windows filtering sunlight into delicate patterns on the floor, gold leaf tracing the edges of paintings so detailed I could spend hours staring atthem. Everything here feels… quiet but heavy, like even the air knows it belongs to royalty.
A woman in a crisp ivory saree meets me halfway down the corridor. “Ms. Sharma?” she asks, with the kind of voice that doesn’t need to be loud to command attention. I nod quickly, clutching the folded decree in my hand as if she might snatch it away. “This way, please.”
I follow her, trying to remember to breathe normally. My footsteps echo in a way that makes me self-conscious, as if every guard, every ancient portrait, every hidden ghost of this palace can hear how fast my heart is beating. I should have worn better shoes. Or ironed my kurta. Or… or something.
We stop outside a carved wooden door that looks older than the entire lane I live in.
She pushes it open and gestures for me to step inside.
It’s a private room—no grand durbar hall, no thrones. Just a large desk, two sofas, and shelves lined with old leather-bound books that probably smell like power.
I sit on the very edge of the sofa, palms pressed against my knees to keep them from shaking.
The door opens again.
And then he walks in.
I’ve seen Maharaj Devraj Singh Shekhawat before—on the covers of local magazines at the tea stall, in stiff photographs shaking hands with ministers—but those were two-dimensional. This… is different. He’s taller than I expected, broad-shouldered, carrying himself like the air belongs to him. There’s nothing rushed about his movements, nothing uncertain. His suit isperfectly tailored, the kind of black that doesn’t fade. The kind of black that probably costs more than my yearly rent.
And yet… his eyes, dark brown eyes, are sharp, assessing, like he’s cataloguing me before even speaking.
Two bodyguards follow him in, silent as shadows, then stop near the door.
He sits across from me, not behind the desk, but still somehow managing to make it feel like he’s the one on higher ground. For a moment, there’s only the ticking of an ornate clock somewhere behind me.
Then he says it.
“We have to get married.”
I blink. Once. Twice. My brain makes a strange static noise, like the radio lost signal.
“… Excuse me?”
His tone doesn’t change. “I said, we have to get married.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if this is some sort of bizarre royal joke. Do kings… do that? Invite people over just to terrify them? The words don’t even sound real. They hang in the air like a dare, impossible to touch or make sense of.
My mind races—married? To him? Why? Is this about money? Debt? Did my father do something? Oh god, did my father do something?
I can feel my throat going dry. “I… think there’s been a mistake,” I manage, but my voice sounds small in the big, echoing room.
The Maharaj doesn’t look amused. And somehow, that’s worse.
