Page 44 of The Promised Queen
“Let’s keep this under wraps for now,” I say. “Whatever I decide, we announce it only within the family. This remains amongst us.”
“Bhai—” Veeraj begins.
“No.” My tone is sharper than I intend, but I can’t soften it. “We do not involve the public. Not yet.”
Not yet.
Because in truth, I want to. God, I want to stand before the world and say it plainly: No one, not even my own blood, not even the woman who bore me, has the right to disrespect my wife and walk away unscathed. I want to make an example ofher, to carve it into stone that Meher is untouchable, that she belongs here not because I say so, but because she is.
But I can’t. Not without shattering the fragile threads that still bind this family together. I may be a king, but I am also the head of this household. If I break it apart, who will be left standing beside me when the dust settles?
And more than that—how can I act alone, when every arrow has been aimed at Meher from the beginning? It is her dignity, her name, that has been stained. If justice is to be served, then she must have a voice in it.
I breathe out slowly, my chest aching. I will leave the decision to her. I cannot be the one to decide.
My eyes fall on Vihaan again. He looks older than his years, the burden of truth carving lines into his face. He doesn’t speak, but his gaze meets mine with silent understanding. He has given me loyalty at the cost of his own heart, and I will not forget it.
Veeraj, though, looks away. His fingers tighten around his phone, his jaw set stubbornly. He is not ready to accept it, not yet. And perhaps I cannot ask him to.
I nod once, more to myself than to them. “We are done here.”
Neither of them moves immediately. But eventually Vihaan gathers the papers, stacking them neatly, methodically, as though order might soothe the chaos in his chest. Veeraj shoves his phone into his pocket, his shoulders rigid as he rises.
They leave quietly, the heavy door closing behind them.
And I am left alone in the study, surrounded by fractured sunlight and the faint scent of sandalwood, drowning in a silence that feels heavier than any crown I have ever worn.
CHAPTER 34
A Crown of Forgiveness
DEVRAJ
The night has stretched long by the time I walk back to Meher’s room. The palace feels cavernous at this hour. Hushed corridors echo only the sound of my footsteps, and portraits of ancestors look down on me with expressions I can never quite read. I imagine they judge me, like she does. Like she always has.
Rajmata’s face lingers in my mind, carved sharper than any marble bust in these halls. The tilt of her chin, the way her syllables always landed just so, clipped and perfect, hiding disdain behind careful control. And now—Vihaan’s voice replaying in my head, strained and reluctant, the words he hadn’t wanted to give me but could not withhold. The truth laid bare: the leaks, the rumors, the edited photograph that humiliated my wife. All of it, her doing.
I had myself braced for betrayal. From her, it was never impossible. But knowing is different from hearing. And hearing is different from feeling. Tonight I feel it like a blade in the ribs. Not because she hurt me—I’ve survived her cuts my whole life. But because she hurt Meher. Willingly. Deliberately. And I can’t forgive that.
I pause outside Meher’s door. My hand rests on the brass handle, cool beneath my fingers. The soft glow of light spills faintly from under the crack. She’s still awake. Of course she is—her mind never lets her rest until exhaustion wins. I knock once, softly, our unspoken signal.
“Come in,” she calls, her voice warm, unguarded.
I open the door quietly.
She’s there on the bed, cross-legged, hair loose around her shoulders and a book open in her lap. The lamp by her side casts her in amber light, making her look softer than she ever admits she is. When she looks up and sees me, something in her face shifts, the book is forgotten instantly. Instead, concern blooms on her face.
“You’re late,” she says gently, closing the book, sliding it aside. There’s no reproach in her voice, only curiosity. “Did the meeting run long?”
I almost laugh. We were supposed to watch a movie together tonight. She’d discovered—half in shock, half in horror—that I hadn’t seen one since I was fifteen and declared it her mission to fix that. She’d been planning which film to start with. She doesn’t know the truth—that the thought of sitting in the dark, doing nothing, has always felt… impossible for me. Time has always belonged to duty. But I had promised her I would try.
“Yes,” I answer simply, though the word feels like a lie. It wasn’t just long. It was devastating.
Her brows knit, her eyes searching me. “Something happened.”
I don’t reply right away. Instead, I cross the room and sit heavily on the edge of the bed. My elbows rest on my knees, hands clasped together so tightly the veins stand out. I stare at the carpet as though the pattern might rearrange itself into answers.
“Raja-sa?” she prompts again, gentler this time.
