Page 18 of The Promised Queen
“I am heading that way,” he says evenly, his tone making it sound less like an offer and more like fact. “Let me accompany you.”
I hesitate. Then nod. “Alright.”
We walk side by side, the silence between us taut, layered with things neither of us seems ready to voice. I’m hyperaware of his presence, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the air, the weight of his stride matching mine.
But all thoughts scatter when I see the car waiting at the entrance, a sleek black BMW gleaming in the sun.
“Could you have chosen a bit more of a… decent car?”
He frowns, stopping for a second as if I’ve insulted him. “If it isn’t decent, I will ask them to bring a better model immediately.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me before I can hold it back. “No, no—that’s not what I meant. I meant, in your language… a worse car. Something simpler.”
I glance at him, half-expecting irritation. Instead, I find him already looking at me, a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at his lips. It does something strange to me, that smile.
“I will take care of that,” he says quietly.
“Thank you,” I murmur, surprising myself with how soft my voice sounds.
He steps ahead, opening the car door for me with the kind of grace that makes it look like instinct rather than habit. Just as I’m settling into the seat, his hand still on the door, he leans slightly closer.
“You look beautiful when you laugh.”
The words hang in the air, unexpectedly intimate. My pulse stumbles. My mouth goes dry.
“Not always?” I ask, faking a little frown, trying to lighten the weight of his gaze.
His eyes widen just a fraction, the unguarded reaction almost endearing. “I mean—yes, of course, you look beautiful always. Obviously.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his flustered tone. But I school my face, softening my voice. “It’s okay, Maharaj. I was just teasing.”
He studies me for a moment—really studies me, as if memorizing the way I said that. Then, slowly, a smile curves his lips. Small. Genuine.
“Have a good day, Meher.”
“You, too,” I whisper, just before he closes the door.
The world outside muffles into silence as the car starts. I lean back against the seat, pressing a hand to my heart as if I can calm its frantic pace.
What the hell am I doing? And more terrifyingly, what is he doing with me?
CHAPTER 15
Whispers in the Dark
DEVRAJ
I stare at the laptop screen, the glow of it throwing harsh light across my study. Words blur into one another, though the headlines are impossible to miss. They glare at me, louder than any whisper in the corridors of this palace.
“King of Udaipur Breaks Tradition, Marries a Commoner.”
“A school teacher as Queen? Royals and Citizens Divided.”
“Meher Sharma: From Chalkboards to Royalty — But Is She Ready?”
“End of Lineage? Royal Duties Overshadowed by Personal Desires.”
Each headline is crafted with surgical precision — enough to wound, but never deep enough to kill. I know the media well. They know how to turn admiration into doubt and respect into suspicion, with just the placement of a single word.