Page 19 of The Promised Queen
Vihaan sits across from me, his elbows propped on the armrest, his expression composed but his eyes scanning mine. He has always been more than my brother, more than the headof PR. He reads me the way others read these newspapers: quickly, accurately, and leaving nothing between the lines.
“I’ll handle it,” he says finally. “Give me some time, Devraj. I know how to deal with these vultures. Just… keep her out of sight for now. At least a few days.”
I lean back in my chair, my jaw clenched. “She’s not a criminal to be hidden away.”
“I never said she was,” he replies calmly. “But optics matter. Let me shape the narrative first. Then, when people see her, they’ll see what I want them to.”
It feels wrong. It feels necessary. Both truths coil inside me, fighting for dominance.
Finally, I nod, the weight of the decision pressing into me. “Do what you must.”
Vihaan rises, smoothing his kurta and giving me a nod of assurance before leaving the room. His footsteps echo against the marble, fading into silence. And I am left staring at those headlines again, wondering when my crown became so fragile that a few printed words could rattle its steadiness.
I stand and close the laptop, signalling my assistant to take it away. I am done for the day, at least with these official tasks. But now I need to tell Meher about this—that is, if she doesn’t know already. But the way these articles spread, it's nearly impossible she doesn’t.. How do I convince her to not teach, even if for a short while? There are only two things she asked from me, and I am already trying to take away one.
I find her in her room.
The lamps are dim, their golden light spilling across her cream anarkali as she sits on the edge of the bed. Her hair is unpinned, her dupatta draped carelessly at her side. She looks small, almost too small for the space around her, and yet she fills it with her quiet strength.
“Meher,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
She looks up, her expression expectant. Hopeful, maybe. And that makes it worse.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I begin, stepping closer. “The news has broken. They’re running stories… questioning us. Questioning you. Until this calms down, I need you to avoid going to the school,” I say, ripping off the band-aid in one go.
Her brows knit, her lips parting in disbelief. “What?”
“I’m asking for a few days only,” I explain quickly. “Vihaan will handle it, he just needs time. But the less they see of you now, the easier it will be.”
Her eyes flash—not anger, but hurt. “You promised me.”
My chest tightens. “I know, Meher. And I apologise. I will resolve this as soon as possible.”
She looks away, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dupatta. Her silence is sharper than any words.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.
She exhales, and when she looks back at me, her gaze is steady but heavy. “I don’t care what people say about me. I’ve lived with nosy neighbors all my life. People are not kind to those who don’t have power or money, Maharaj. I have seen that first-hand. So no, I don’t care what they talk about me.” She pauses, her voice dropping, softer but no less steady. “But I am sorry for all the trouble I may have caused you.”
Something cracks inside me at that.
I look at this woman—this woman who is sitting here in a plain anarkali, her bangles sliding down her wrist, her face stripped of pretension—apologising for something she never asked for. For something I dragged her into.
“You have nothing to apologise for, Meher.” My voice feels rough, unpolished. “If I have to go through all the troubles in the world to stop your name from being dragged into mud, I would go through it.”
Her head lifts, her eyes wide, luminous in the lamplight. “Why?”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. “I don’t know why you keep asking me that when you clearly know the answer.”
I turn to leave, because if I stay a second longer I might say more than I should. More than I’m ready to. “Good night, Meher.”
She nods, her voice quiet. “Good night to you too…” Then, in a voice low enough to be a whisper, she adds, “Raja-sa.”
I freeze.
Not Maharaj. Not the cold, distant title that has been thrown at me my entire life. Raja-sa. No one calls me that. I had only heard it from Maa-sa’s mouth for my Baapu-sa when she was in a good mood.
I turn back. Meher is smiling at me, gentle and unguarded.
