Page 7 of The Promised Queen
I nod. I don’t stop her. Her dupatta trails behind her as she walks away, catching the light for a second before disappearing through the carved doorway.
Something in my chest shifts—a faint, unsettling awareness.
She’ll be back. Not because of duty. Not because of the vow. Because I have the distinct, almost dangerous feeling that Meher Sharma is going to cause chaos in my life.
And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
CHAPTER 6
When the Walls Start to Fall
MEHER
Since last evening, my head has been a carousel with only one ride—his voice.
We have to get married.
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a request. It was said like a fact.
Like the way someone might say it will rain tomorrow.
Except instead of looking up at the clouds, I keep looking inside myself, trying to figure out if I’m the type of woman who agrees to something so big… so absurd.
I’ve barely slept. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—Maharaj Devraj Singh Shekawat. Too tall for my comfort. Too composed, like someone carved him from rules and discipline. And yet, when he said,“I’m yours,”there was something in his voice… like it cost him to say it.
The door creaks. My father stumbles into my room. His shirt is crumpled, the buttons mismatched, hair sticking up in tired tufts. “I need money,” he mutters.
I don’t even look up. “I have none left. You used everything.” It comes out flatter than I intend.
His jaw tightens. “Useless girl,” he snaps, louder now. “Can’t even earn enough for your own father.”
I keep folding the laundry. If I stop, I’ll start shaking. If I start shaking, he’ll know he’s getting to me. But the next thing I hear is his voice rising into a full fit—old insults spilling out like they’ve been waiting all day for an audience.
And then—I hear a loud bang. I jump. The sound is sharp enough to rattle the thin glass in the window. The door.
I rush out, heart pounding, to see it hanging crooked on one hinge. The landlord stands there, flanked by two of his men. His arms are crossed, lips pulled into that permanent scowl he wears like a badge.
“Enough is enough, Meher,” he says, voice carrying over the narrow corridor. “Rent’s overdue. I’ve been patient, but patience isn’t free.”
The neighbours are already out—women in faded nighties, men leaning on doorframes, all craning their necks to see. Their eyes flick between me and my father. I see the head shakes, the pity mixed with smugness. This is what they live for—watching someone else’s shame.
I try to speak, to calm him. “I know it’s late, I just need a little more—”
“Tomorrow evening.” His voice slices through mine. “If I don’t have my money by then, I’ll throw you both out on the road. You understand?”
I nod, but my chest is tight.
When they leave, the corridor hums with low whispers. Some neighbours pretend to walk past, peeking through the corner of their eyes, like I’m a headline they can’t stop reading.
I turn back. The door is broken. The landlord’s boot print is still faintly visible on the lower panel. And behind me, my father’s voice is rising again—how useless I am, how ungrateful, how he sacrificed for me.
I don’t listen this time. I can’t.
Because standing there, staring at a door hanging from one hinge, I realize this place stopped being a home long ago. It’s just four tired walls that let in too much noise, too much cold in winter, too much heat in summer. A roof that leaks when it rains, a floor that groans like it’s carrying the weight of all my bad luck.
And suddenly, I remember yesterday—me sitting there in that palace, looking straight into the eyes of a man born into everything I’ve never had, and asking him why I should marry him.
I almost laugh out loud. Why should I? What a joke. Like I’ve been in a position to choose anything in my life. The truth is, I’ve been living without the very thing marriage—his marriage—could give me. Not love, or romance. I’m not delusional.
