Page 13 of The Promised Queen
The truth is, I don’t go to anyone. Not for comfort. Not for help. Not for anything.
People come to me—always. That’s the life of a king. And I’ve been living it far longer than I’ve worn the crown. Even as a boy, I learned that my mother’s attention came in the form of instructions, not affection. She’d sit with Vihaan and Veeraj, stroking their hair when they were sick, holding their hands when they cried. With me, she’d stand tall, voice cool, telling me to be strong, to behave like a future king.
When I fell off my horse at twelve and split my lip, Baapu-sa had to stop her from sending me straight to lessons the next day. When I won my first polo match at seventeen, she didn’t say “I’m proud of you,” just, “You’ll play better next time.”
So that’s what I have learnt since childhood, that I have no place to go, no shoulder to lean on when I am in need. I am not allowed to have needs. I am the king, afterall.
“It’s late,” I say finally, forcing the thoughts back into their box. “You should sleep.” I stand and straighten my kurta. “Sleep well, Meher.”
I turn to go, but just as I reach the door, I hear it. So soft I almost miss it.
“You, too.”
CHAPTER 11
The Queen’s Saree
MEHER
I wake up to the sound of soft footsteps. For a moment, I have no idea where I am; the ceiling above me is too high, the chandelier too ornate, the walls too… golden. My brain needs a few seconds to catch up.
The palace, my room, even the bed I slept in feels like it could fit my entire flat inside twice over, yet it feels suffocating.
There’s no comfort here. Only grandeur.
A soft knock at the door is followed by the entry of two women in matching beige saris with thin gold borders. Their hair is pulled back in neat buns, not a strand out of place. They move in silent coordination, like they’ve done this a thousand times.
“Good morning, Maharani-sa,” one says, her voice polite but clipped.
I don’t respond right away. I’m still getting used to that title. It feels… foreign. Like they’re talking to someone else and I’ve accidentally answered.
Before I can fully sit up, they’re already setting out an outfit for me—a heavy maroon saree, thick with embroidery and gold thread work. The kind of fabric that could probably stand up on its own. The pallu is weighed down with tiny golden bells that jingle faintly when they move it.
I run my fingers over it. The cloth is beautiful, yes, but also the exact opposite of what I want to wear today.
“I’d like to wear my anarkali,” I say, glancing at them.
Both women freeze for the briefest moment. Then one of them tilts her head just slightly, her expression not unkind but unmistakably surprised, as if I’ve just suggested walking to breakfast in my pajamas.
“Maharani-sa are supposed to wear this,” she says, the emphasis deliberate, her tone smooth but edged. It’s not a suggestion—it’s almost an order wrapped in courtesy.
I meet her eyes, tempted to argue, to tell her I’ve dressed myself my whole life without help, but I bite it back. I don’t want to cause a scene, not until I confirm with the Maharaj himself.
I’m not asking for permission because what I wear is my choice. But I do need to inform him.
After I have freshened up and bathed, they help me into the saree. The pleats feel like shackles around my legs, and the weight of the pallu drags against my shoulder as though reminding me I don’t belong here. By the time they’re done adjusting the gold bangles and pinning my hair, I feel more like a mannequin on display than a person.
When I step out, the sight that greets me stops me mid-step.
He’s standing right outside my chamber, one hand in his pocket, phone pressed to his ear. His posture is controlled and rigid like always. His assistant, sharp suit, clipboard in hand, stands a few steps behind.
Then his eyes land on me. And just like that, his conversation stops mid-sentence. He pulls the phone from his ear and cuts the call without so much as a goodbye.
One long stride, and suddenly he’s close enough that I can catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, warm, with something sharper underneath.
“You look beautiful, Mahara—” he pauses, then corrects himself“—Meher.”
“Thank you,” I say politely, my voice calmer than I feel.
