Page 21 of The Promised Queen
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, looking down at my lap. “I don’t know anything about politics. And maybe I’m not being practical. But if it’s possible… please, understand your people before you rule over them.”
He hums, low in his throat, the only response I get.
I force a small smile. “I think I should go. I’ve said a lot.” I begin to rise, but his hand closes around mine.
I freeze.
Since our wedding, this may be the first time he’s held my hand. His grip is firm, grounding, and when I look at him, his eyes aren’t weary anymore. They’re steady.
“Stay,” he says.
I sink back down, unable to fight the pull of his voice.
“Thank you,” he says, smiling softly. “I never thought of it that way. It is… rather simple, isn’t it?” He chuckles under his breath.
I smile, relief washing over me.
“I know you said you don’t want any political responsibilities,” he continues, his gaze still fixed on mine, “but is it okay if I come to you for advice?”
My jaw nearly drops. The king himself asking me for advice? What could I possibly give him?
As if sensing my panic, he chuckles again, quieter this time. “You’ve seen it all closely, Meher. In a way I never will. Would you help me understand what people might want?”
For a moment, all I hear is the frantic beating of my own heart. Then I nod. “Of course.”
Something in his eyes softens further. “But Meher… remember this. You were part of the people, yes. But now you are queen. Please don’t forget that.”
I smile at him, shaking my head. “I try, Raja-sa. But… it’s just not me.”
His expression deepens, his voice steady as he says, “You’re more of a queen the way you are. No one else would be better for this title.”
And the way he says it steals the air from my lungs. For the first time since stepping into this palace, I almost believe it.
Almost.
CHAPTER 17
The People’s Queen
DEVRAJ
Meher’s words hadn’t left me that night. They had sat with me, lingering in the quiet corners of my mind while I tried to drown them in work, reports, and endless meetings with ministers who speak in circles.
Instead of deciding for the people, ask them what they want.
Simple. Almost too simple. But she had been right.
So against every single warning, every insistence that it wasn’t safe, that it wasn’t “the king’s place,’ I’d gone outside. Not to make a speech, not to command, not to defend myself, but to simply listen.
It had been messy. Chaotic. Men yelled about taxes, women waved their bills, farmers held their calloused hands high in frustration. But once I’d asked them what they wanted, the shouting had dulled into conversation. Real words. Real grievances. Some were small, some impossible, some heartbreaking. But I listened until my head pounded, and then I listened some more.
And slowly, their anger softened into something else. Not forgiveness—not yet. But maybe… the beginning of trust.
Vihaan had seen an opening in all of this. Of course, he did. He’s sharper than anyone gives him credit for. “This is the moment to clear Maharani’s name,” he’d told me. And though I usually let the media rot in their own nonsense, I couldn’t let Meher keep bleeding from daggers she never earned.
So he’d ordered me to spin it around. Ordered, not suggested, because while I may be king, he’s the one who handles PR, and he knows how difficult it is to have me agree with anything related to the media.
He told the press the truth: that it was Meher’s idea. That the queen inspired the king to step out of the palace walls and hear his people.
