Page 2 of The Promised Queen
For a moment, I let go of being careful, of holding back. I dance freely, letting the fabric of my anarkali swirl, my bangles chiming with each turn. The children follow, trying to match my spins and steps. Some fall behind, but they laugh, and that’s enough.
When I move like this, the world outside—its coldness, its debts, its cruel words—stops existing. Here, in the circle of music and movement, I am more than a daughter with a broken home. I am a dancer. I am Meher. And for the length of a song, that is enough.
CHAPTER 2
The Crown Feels Heavier at Thirty
DEVRAJ
The ballroom is drowning in gold light. Chandeliers drip crystals above our heads, refracting into hundreds of tiny suns that make the silk sarees shimmer and the jewels on turbans gleam. Laughter ricochets off the marble, a hundred voices weaving together into a single, polite roar.
They’re all here for me—or so they say.
I know better.
Businessmen with folded hands and rehearsed smiles. Politicians with daughters conveniently “studying in London” who have suddenly decided Udaipur is charming this time of year. Nobles who still cling to the title like it means something in this century. They come bearing gifts, but every one of them is wrapped in expectation.
The Shekhawat name still carries weight. Not because of me—never because of me—but because of my father. He was one of the last kings who could walk into a marketplace and be greeted like an old friend. When he died, the whole city fell silent. Shopkeepers shut their stores. Men and women who had nevermet him wept as though they’d lost their own father. In many ways, they had.
I take a sip of the drink in my hand, the glass sweating in the warmth of the room. I can feel the smile on my face stiffening, the one I’ve worn all evening.
Since I became king, I’ve realized just how strong he was. He spent decades surrounded by people who wanted a piece of him, yet he never hardened. He carried their demands with grace, never letting the weight crush him.
I am nothing like that.
Sometimes I wish I could ask him how he did it—how he kept the loneliness from hollowing him out. But the only answer I have is the silence of his absence. Tonight should mean something. I’ve been waiting for this birthday for fifteen years, ever since the lawyer told me my father left a letter for me that I could only open when I turned thirty. It’s been a shadow in the back of my mind ever since. And now, finally, I am thirty.
“Bhai-sa!” Sitara’s voice cuts through the noise like a bell.
She’s weaving through the crowd in a swirl of yellow silk, her smile bright enough to outshine the chandeliers. She’s always been like this—light in human form—but I know what’s beneath that smile, I can see the nervous flicker in her eyes that she tries to hide from everyone else.
“Happy birthday again,” she says, hugging me without worrying about royal decorum.
“Thank you, Tara,” I murmur.
Behind her, Vihaan appears, grinning like the human equivalent of a golden retriever. “And here I thought I was your favorite sibling,” he says.
“You’re not,” I reply easily. “Tara is.”
Vihaan clutches his chest as if wounded. “You wound me, bhai-sa.”
Veeraj arrives last, nursing a glass of something dark. His expression is as gruff as ever, but there’s a curve at the corner of his mouth. “At least you’re honest about your favoritism,” he mutters.
We stand together for a moment, a small island of familiarity in the sea of strangers. I listen more than I speak, as always. Vihaan chatters about some polo match, Veeraj makes dry remarks, and Sitara teases them both. I don’t join in much—I’m better at listening than talking—but I let the conversation flow around me, warm and easy.
Finally, I clear my throat. “I’m heading to my office. The three of you enjoy the party.”
Sitara’s brows knit together. “bhai-sa, it’s your birthday! You should be celebrating, not working!”
I reach out, patting her head like I used to when she was little. “You celebrate on my behalf, Tara.”
She sighs, but lets me go.
The corridors outside the ballroom are mercifully quiet. My footsteps echo off the high ceilings as I make my way to my chambers. The air here smells faintly of sandalwood and something older, like the sandstone walls themselves hold their own breath.
When I step inside my office, the lawyer is already waiting, seated on the leather chair opposite my desk. He rises immediately.
“I’m just here to deliver the letter,” he says. “Happy birthday, Raja-ji.”
