Page 10 of The Promised Queen
Vihaan tries next. “Rajmata, with all due respect—”
“With all due respect,” she cuts in, “you are not the one wearing the crown. This is not your burden.”
They fall silent.
I’ve seen this scene before—her words shutting doors, her presence filling the room like stone walls closing in.
“I will not accept this,” Rajmata says, each word clipped and hard enough to cut. “A king marrying a commoner is… is beneath this family. Beneath this crown.”
I don’t need her to explain. I’ve lived my whole life watching her see the world through a single, rigid lens.
To her, people are divided into two kinds—those born into privilege, and those born to serve it. It’s not something she says openly in public; she’s too controlled for that. But I’ve seen it in the little things. The way her gaze slides past the gardener as though he’s part of the hedges. The way her tone shifts—light, warm, measured—when she speaks to visiting royalty, then turns cold and perfunctory when addressing the head of staff.
Even as a boy, I could tell she believed worth was stamped on you at birth, like a seal that could never be altered.
In her world, a crown doesn’t just sit on your head—it sits above everyone else’s.
And anyone who wasn’t born to wear one should never dream of touching it.
It’s not just disapproval. It’s a kind of quiet revulsion.
So when she says it is beneath this crown, I know she’s not talking about politics or alliances or tradition. She’s talking about bloodlines. About keeping the palace air free from the “dust” of the outside world.
And she knows exactly what she’s doing—because for her, the only thing worse than me making a mistake is me making one in full view of the people she thinks we’re supposed to rule over.
“I am not a king here,” I say, leaning forward. “I am sitting with my family. I am your son.”
Her eyes don’t soften. “You are a king everywhere, Devraj. Even here. Especially here.”
My jaw aches from clenching it. And inside, that old ache stirs—the one that’s been there since I was a boy, trying to figure out what I had done wrong to make her… like this with me.
I have a mother. But I have always felt like an orphan.
With Vihaan, she laughs easily. With Veeraj, she fusses—adjusting his collar before an event, scolding him gently if he skips breakfast. They get her touch, her smile, her “beta, eat more.”
Me? I get talks. Lessons. Corrections. I get the constant reminder that I carry a kingdom on my shoulders and that nothing—not my likes, not my wants—matters more than that crown.
When I was nine, I came running to her with a sketch I had made—an ugly, misshapen attempt at drawing the palace. She took it, looked at it for exactly three seconds, then handed it back saying,“You must focus on things that matter for a ruler.”
When I was thirteen and broke my wrist falling off a horse, she didn’t come to the doctor’s room. She sent an aide with a message:“A king must learn to bear pain quietly.”
Even on my fourteenth birthday, when Baapu-sa hugged me tight and whispered that he was proud of me, she stood by the window and said, “Your speech at the council tomorrow must be flawless.”
I’ve spent my life chasing one word—just one—from her lips that sounds like love.
It has never come.
And maybe I’m a fool for still wanting it.
I push my chair back and stand. The scrape of the legs on the marble sounds loud in the thick silence. “If that is how it is,” I say, my voice low but steady, “then as your king, I order everyone in this room to respect my decision and my future wife. I will not tolerate any disrespect toward her.”
Her eyes narrow just slightly, but she doesn’t speak.
I don’t wait for her to.
I turn and walk out, each step echoing off the walls.
I know Rajmata will make things hard for Meher. She’ll test her, push her, try to break her. But Meher isn’t made of glass. She’s strong.
