Page 67 of The Promised Queen
Vihaan frowns, brows knitting. “But… how can you be so sure—”
“I know my wife, brother,” I cut him off, sharper than I mean to, but I don’t care. My chest feels like it’s cracking open, like everything I’ve been holding tight is spilling out. “That’s how.”
His lips part, but I don’t give him space to argue. I reach out and pat his shoulder, grounding myself with the familiar gesture. “Thank you,” I say, softer this time. For finding this. For handing me this thin thread of her.
I take two steps toward the door before something twists in me, forces me to turn back. My voice drops low, almost a confession as I meet his eyes. “If she asks me…” My throat tightens. My jaw clenches. “If she asks me, I would leave the crown.”
Vihaan’s mouth falls open as if I’ve just spoken blasphemy. “Bhai-sa—”
“Then naturally, it will be yours,” I say, not unkindly. A statement of fact, not pressure. “The line will fall to you.”
He shakes his head quickly, violently, like he can shake off the weight of what I’m saying. His lips part, panic sparking in his eyes.
“But if you wish not to,” I cut in, not letting him drown in it, “it will pass on to Veeraj. And then… Sitara.” The words feelheavy in my mouth, but they’re true. Our family has never been one to let the crown sit idle. It moves where it must.
His voice drops to a whisper. “And if… no one wishes for it?”
I hold his gaze steadily. “Then we will dissolve this,” I state simply. And I mean it. What is a crown worth if it keeps me from her? What is any of this worth if she’s not here to share it with me?
I don’t wait for his answer. I can’t. If I stand here any longer, the weight of centuries of duty, of expectation, will pin me down. I turn and walk out, each step heavier than the last but driven by the same truth pulsing through me: tomorrow, I will see her.
Meher Sharma.
Her name echoes in my mind, her old name. The name she bore before she ever stepped into my world, before the vows, before the silks and jewels and the burden of being my queen. The name that is hers alone, stripped of all ties to me.
Did she choose it because she wanted to feel like herself again? To shed the weight of beingRani-sa? Or did she leave it behind like a trail of breadcrumbs, a challenge for me to follow?
I picture her face when I find her tomorrow. The way her eyes widen when she sees me, the way her lips part just slightly as if she can’t decide whether to smile or cry. Will she run to me again, like she did that night in her room? Or will she turn away, cold and furious, daring me to close the distance?
I don’t know. But I know this—when I see her tomorrow, I won’t let her go again. Not without hearing her truth from her own lips. Not without letting her hear mine.
The papers are still crumpled in my fist, her name smudged from where my thumb pressed too hard.Meher Sharma.Twosimple words. But they burn like fire in my veins, pulling me forward.
Tomorrow, Jaipur. Tomorrow, her. Tomorrow, everything changes.
CHAPTER 48
When the Spotlight Burns
MEHER
Three days.
That’s how long it’s been since I walked away from Devraj Singh Rathore—Raja-sa.
Three days since I left the palace before dawn, leaving behind nothing but a letter folded neatly on his desk. My handwriting shaky, words smudged because I couldn’t stop crying while writing them. I left for his freedom, for his peace… for a life where he doesn’t have to suffer because of me.
I thought the ache would dull by now. That maybe throwing myself into rehearsals would help. That music and rhythm—the only constants in my life—would carry me through the hollow in my chest. But they don’t. The hollow just widens every time the lights hit my face and the applause echoes.
The past seventy-two hours have blurred into a pattern of bright stages and darker nights. I’ve smiled for the cameras, laughed when needed, and danced because that’s what people expect from Meher Sharma. But when the curtains fall and the clamor fades, I curl up alone in hotel rooms, clutching the edge of a cold pillow like it’s his shoulder. And cry myself to sleep.
I don’t know what hurts more—the emptiness inside me or the thought of what he must have felt when he read that letter. Does he hate me? Or worse… does he understand? I didn’t do this because I stopped loving him. God, if love could kill, I’d be six feet under by now.
I swallow hard, blinking away the sting in my eyes before it smudges the liner I just fixed. My reflection in the backstage mirror looks like a stranger—lipstick too bright, jewelry too heavy, smile too hollow. My ghagra flares like liquid fire, sequins catching the glow from the side lamps. Everyone says I look breathtaking tonight. If only they knew the truth: I can barely breathe.
“Meher-ji?” The event coordinator pops her head in, all headset and frantic energy. “You’re on next. Two minutes.”
I nod, forcing a smile. My lips move, but my heart doesn’t. It hasn’t since the day I walked out of his life.
