Page 73 of The Promised Queen
One day.
That day can wait, because right now—my Meher is about to walk onto that stage.
A cheer ripples through the crowd as the curtains part. I straighten, my gaze locked on her. The kids tumble forward in a crooked line, their tiny steps out of sync, headbands slipping, a few of them waving at their parents mid-walk. It’s chaos in its purest form, and I can’t stop the laugh that escapes me. A soft chuckle at first, then a grin that refuses to fade.
And then I see her.
Meher.
She walks in after them, trying—failing—to keep the line straight. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, and thereit is: that quiet sparkle meant only for me. My pulse kicks up. She’s radiant under the stage lights, her dupatta pinned carefully so the kids won’t trip over it, her hands gently guiding a little boy who’s already distracted by the curtain ropes.
Music bursts through the speakers—a lively tune that probably took weeks of practice and still sounds like something the children will completely ignore. They do.
The first beat drops, and the chaos doubles. One kid forgets the steps entirely and begins hopping in circles; another freezes like a deer in headlights. Two little girls are arguing mid-performance about who stands in the center. And yet, somehow, Meher makes it work.
She claps her hands lightly, moving into position, her voice carrying over the music as she encourages them without breaking the rhythm. She twirls, a vision of grace among tiny whirlwinds of uncertainty. Her lehenga swishes, sequins catching the light, and when the smallest girl forgets her move and clings to her leg, Meher scoops her up without hesitation, laughing as if this was part of the choreography all along.
God, she’s incredible.
I feel my chest tighten in that way it does when I realize—again and again—that she’s mine. That I get to love this woman who can turn a mess into magic, who can make a room full of strangers feel like family, who can stand on a stage surrounded by chaos and still look calm at the center of it all.
The audience is eating it up. Phones rise like a field of glowing fireflies, parents cheering as their kids stumble and laugh and forget every second step. And there I am—hands resting loosely on my knees, smiling like an idiot, unable to look away.
The song ends with no real formation, just a group of kids clumped together and Meher kneeling in the middle, clapping for them louder than anyone else. The applause roars, and I find myself on my feet before I even realize it, clapping until my palms sting.
She looks up then, scanning the crowd, and when her eyes land on me, everything else fades. For a second, it’s just us. Her flushed cheeks, her hair falling loose around her face, the curve of her lips as she smiles at me like I’m the reason she’s glowing.
Maybe I am.
The curtains close, and I make my way backstage. The corridor smells of sweat and talcum powder, littered with glitter and forgotten water bottles. I hear laughter first—small, high-pitched giggles—and then her voice, soft but firm as she tells someone to hold still.
I step inside and pause.
Meher is crouched down, adjusting a child’s shoe strap while another tugs at her dupatta. “One at a time, kids,” she says, smiling even as she tries to free the fabric. There’s a streak of glitter across her cheek, and her hands are full—literally—because now two kids have wrapped their arms around her neck from behind.
It hits me all over again, that image in my head of her surrounded by our own little ones. My throat goes tight, but I push the thought away before it swallows me whole.
“Maharaj!” a tiny voice squeals, and suddenly I’m the center of attention. Dozens of eyes turn toward me, wide with awe. One brave little boy steps forward and salutes—an actual salute. I can’t help the laugh that escapes me as I kneel down to his level.
“Very disciplined,” I say, ruffling his hair. “Are you the leader here?”
He nods solemnly, puffing out his chest. Behind him, Meher bites back a laugh, shaking her head.
Another kid tugs at my sleeve. “Maharaj, did you see me dance?”
“I did,” I tell her, crouching lower so we’re eye to eye. “You were amazing. The best twirl on stage.”
Her grin is so wide it could split her face. She runs back to her friends, announcing loudly that Maharaj liked her twirl, and suddenly they’re all talking at once, vying for my attention.
Meher watches from a few feet away, her hands on her hips, eyes warm with something that makes my chest ache in the best way.
“Seems like you’ve made some fans,” she teases when I finally stand, brushing imaginary dust from my jacket.
“Jealous?” I murmur, stepping closer so only she can hear.
Her brows lift, a spark in her gaze. “Hardly. They’ve been talking about you all week.”
“Really?”
