Page 15 of The Promised Queen
His phone rings, cutting through the moment. He pulls it from his pocket, still not stepping back.
“I’ll send the royal designer to your chambers. Ask them for whatever you need.”
I nod, finally stepping away. Ojasvi, the maid assigned to me, follows behind as I leave the hall. I glance back once.
He’s still watching me.
My heart beats a little faster than it should.
I may not get love here… but at least, I think, I will get respect.
CHAPTER 12
Marble Walls, Fragile Bonds
MEHER
I let out a soft sigh as I adjust the dupatta over my head, partly because it feels strange to walk these polished corridors without covering it, partly because I’m still not used to the eyes that follow me everywhere. Guards, maids, and even the portraits on the walls seem to track my every move.
Rajkumari Sitara links her arm through mine with a girlish eagerness that almost startles me. Yesterday evening, she had sent her maid to my room with a neatly folded message, telling me she wished to show me around the palace. I could have refused, but really, what excuse did I have? It’s Sunday, so school is off. I don’t know the layout of this palace well enough to wander by myself without ending up in some forbidden wing. And most of all, if her enthusiasm is genuine, then perhaps I have a chance at a friend here. I could use one.
“Maharani, you really look beautiful,” she says suddenly, her voice as bright as the anklets chiming on her feet.
I startle at the compliment, then smile. “Thank you… and so do you, Rajkumari.”
Her lips curve, but the smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes. For a fleeting second, I wonder if I’ve said something wrong, if calling her Rajkumari was too formal, or perhaps too distant. But she doesn’t explain, and we’re not close enough for me to pry. So I let it slide, storing that small flicker of unease somewhere in the back of my mind.
“But I would like it if you don’t call me Maharani,” I add after a pause, chuckling softly. “I don’t think I’m made for that title.” Her mouth opens as though she’s about to argue, but I rush in, “Please… just call me Meher.”
She tilts her head, her eyes curious, as if weighing my request. “Will ‘Bhabhi-sa’ work?”
I blink. Technically, that isn’t wrong. I am her bhabhi now. A part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, how quickly a stranger becomes family because of a vow I never asked for. Instead, I nod. “That works.”
“Then, can you call me Sitara? Rajkumari seems too much sometimes.” She chuckles. I nod at her with a smile.
“Good.” Her lips twitch with mischief. “Then let’s begin this adventure.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “Adventure is the right word,” I murmur. Daring, risky… and just a little terrifying.
We start walking, her arm still linked with mine, and I notice how effortlessly she owns the palace space. She knows which turn will lead to the courtyards, which corridor houses the old paintings of their ancestors, and which hall still smells faintly of rose water because the maids clean it twice daily.
“Of course, we can’t see everything today,” she tells me with a playful wink. “But we can explore the places Bhai-sa usually goes. Who knows, you might accidentally bump into him.”
Her laughter is soft, mischievous, and her eyes gleam with a spark I can’t quite read. I don’t join her laughter, but I smile. There’s an ache inside me at the mention of him, one I’m still figuring out.
We pass through the gardens first, the air heavy with the scent of clematis vines curling up marble pillars. Sitara explains which fountain is centuries old, which bench is her favorite to sit on during winter mornings, and which mango tree her mother planted when she was younger. She fills the silence with easy chatter, and I find myself grateful for it.
When we reach the main courtyard, I glance around in awe. The sandstone arches throw long shadows across the tiled floor, and the place hums with the quiet rhythm of palace life—guards marching, maids hurrying, pigeons fluttering from one carved balcony to another.
“And here,” Sitara says proudly, guiding me toward a smaller, more ornate path, “is the way to the royal temple.”
The words make me pause. A temple. My chest tightens, though I can’t say why. Perhaps because temples have always been spaces of peace for me, places where I felt closer to something larger than myself. But here, within these palace walls, it feels different—like even God must sit under protocol.
We climb the marble steps, the bells above chiming faintly in the breeze. But before I can enter, I stop short. Rajmata is already inside.
Her posture is regal as she stands before the deity, lips moving in prayer, her sari pleats perfectly, and her jewels glinting under the golden light of oil lamps. The air shifts when she notices us, her sharp eyes narrowing first at me, then at Sitara.
“Rajkumari,” she greets, her tone cool but not unkind. Then her gaze slides to me, and the warmth drains entirely. “And you.”
