Page 11 of The Promised Queen
And if she ever needs me, I will be there—because if there’s one thing I learned from my mother, it’s how much damage coldness can do. I’ll make sure Meher never feels that kind of loneliness while she’s with me.
CHAPTER 9
A Crown I Never Asked For
MEHER
I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. It’s not the soft, shy flutter people talk about when they’re in love. It’s loud, like the pounding of someone knocking on a locked door, demanding to be let out.
I’m sitting on the mandap, and I swear this is the heaviest I have ever been in my life. Not because I’ve gained weight, but because the lehenga I’m wearing could double as body armor. Deep maroon, thick gold embroidery running like veins all over the skirt, the kind of craftsmanship that takes months to complete. The dupatta is draped over my head and shoulders, so heavy with stones and threadwork that my neck aches just from keeping my head up straight. The blouse… I’ll admit, it’s beautiful, but I have to keep reminding myself to breathe because the fit leaves no room for actual lungs.
It’s stunning. A masterpiece. But it doesn’t belong on me. It belongs on some princess who grew up with tutors teaching her how to walk in heavy silks, someone whose childhood memories are filled with people adjusting her jewellery before she stepped into a drawing room. On me, it feels like a costume. Like I’m playing a part in a drama I never auditioned for.
The banquet hall itself feels even more unreal. The ceiling is so high I half expect clouds to be forming up there. Chandeliers—huge, dripping with crystals—spill light down like warm rain, making every bit of gold thread on my clothes sparkle. The floor gleams, a mirror reflecting the mandap and the red-and-white flowers wound around its pillars.
The space could probably fit thousands of people. But right now, there are only a handful of us here. His family. The pandit-ji. And… me.
Maharaj had introduced me to them earlier, in a quiet, formal way, before guiding me to the mandap. Kuwar Vihaan was the easiest to like instantly; he has that easy smile, that laid-back way of talking that puts you at ease even if you’re wearing twenty kilos of gold and fabric. Kuwar Veeraj is different. Reserved. Speaks only when necessary. When he does, it’s with this careful precision, like every word has to earn its place. He doesn’t smile much, but he doesn’t look unfriendly either—just… contained.
Then there’s Rajkumari Sitara. Sweet, bubbly, her voice carrying the kind of lightness that doesn’t exist in my world. She complimented my attire, asked me if I was comfortable. The kind of polite warmth you extend to someone new at a dinner table. I smiled and thanked her, even though comfort is a joke at this point.
And then… Rajmata. She didn’t even look at me. Not once. Her eyes were closed as she sat with beads in her hand, chanting some mantra under her breath. Her presence felt like a locked door—polished, intimidating, and absolutely shut to me.
Maharaj had still guided me forward, his hand warm on my elbow, leading me to the mandap as if her silence meant nothing. But I understood it for what it was. I am not from her world.In her eyes, I’m not just unfit for her son—I’m beneath what she thinks he deserves. And somehow, that doesn’t hurt. Not because I’m made of stone, but because… she’s not wrong.
I’m glad I didn’t bring my father. When I told him I was getting married to the king, he laughed, said things like finally, you’ll be happy, your life will change now. And then I told him he’d be financially taken care of but that I wouldn’t be taking him with me.
That’s when the curses started. Words that still ring in my ears. Better he didn’t come.
I can feel the warmth of his presence even though we’re not touching.
The rituals begin. The air fills with the sound of Sanskrit chants, low and rhythmic, and the faint crackle of the havan fire. The scent of ghee and sandalwood wraps around me like another layer of clothing. We offer flowers into the flames, pour water over our joined hands, circle the fire. My bangles clink softly against his when our fingers meet for a ritual.
We reach the kanyadaan. Except… there’s no father here to give me away. I didn’t think about how strange that would look until now. My hands are folded in my lap, eyes lowered, when I hear movement. Vihaan steps forward, smiling that same easy smile, though this one has something softer in it.
“We are family now, after all,” he says, his voice warm. Then he leans slightly closer, speaking so only Maharaj and I can hear, “She’s my sister now. You better take care of her, or else I will forget you are the king.”
I’m caught between a laugh and a gasp at the boldness, but before I can react, Maharaj turns his head just enough to look straight into my eyes.
“I will.” He says it like he’s talking to me, not his brother. And for a moment, the noise of the chants and the fire fades, and it’s just his gaze holding mine. Steady. Certain.
The rituals move on until it’s time for the sindoor. I bow my head, feeling the dupatta shift slightly. The pinch of red powder brushes my hairline, and a grainy warmth slides down until I feel it land lightly on the bridge of my nose.
My breath catches. My dadi used to say sindoor falling on the nose is considered auspicious. That it means your husband will love you a lot. She’d tell that story with a soft smile, her fingers absently touching the vermilion in her own hair, as though remembering something private.
I look sideways at Maharaj’s profile. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble, the steady focus in his eyes as he listens to the pandit-ji. There’s no visible emotion there—no smile, no softness—but something about his stillness feels… deliberate.
I’m not sure how true my dadi’s belief is.
The mangalsutra follows, cool metal and tiny gold beads settling against my neck like a quiet weight. And then, as the final mantras are spoken, pandit-ji announces us as husband and wife.
It’s done.
I’m married. To a man who is both king and stranger.
I glance at the family seated before us—Vihaan grinning, Sitara smiling sweetly, Veeraj nodding once in quietacknowledgment. Rajmata still has her eyes closed, beads slipping through her fingers like time she refuses to waste on me.
The fire pops loudly, startling me just enough to break the moment. I straighten my back, adjusting the weight of my lehenga. If she thinks I don’t belong here, she’s not wrong. But I’m here now, whether she likes it or not.
