Page 33 of The Promised Queen

“No?” He holds the elevator door open for me. “It got me your hand in marriage, if I remember correctly.”

I slip inside, pretending to study the golden panel of buttons instead of him. “That wasn’t flattery. That was… fate. Or a deal. Or maybe madness.”

He leans in slightly, enough that I feel his presence brush against my shoulder. “Then let’s call tonight… a choice.”

Something about the way he says it makes my pulse go wild. Choice. Like I have one. Like he’d give me one.

The elevator glides up smoothly, and I’m oddly grateful for the few seconds of silence to pull myself together. When the doors open, he leads me into a corridor lined with soft carpeting that mutes our footsteps. Everything looks untouched—like a place waiting for a story to begin.

The room he opens is no less than a dream. Wide windows frame the night skyline, the city glittering below like it’s wearing its own jewelry. The bed looks too plush to sit on without sinking, and there’s a small dining table set near the window, already waiting with candles and silverware.

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “You planned this.”

He shrugs, walking in like it’s nothing. “I don’t like improvising when it comes to you.”

My heart does a strange flip. I follow him in, pretending to be more interested in the city view than the words that just left his mouth. “So this is your idea of a first date? Empty hotel, candlelight, city lights?”

“You don’t approve?” His tone is light, but his gaze is anything but.

“I didn’t say that.” I trail my fingers along the back of the chair. “It’s just… dramatic.”

His mouth curves again, slow and sure. “Everything about us is dramatic, Meher.”

I can’t even argue with that.

We sit down, and almost instantly, the staff brings in plates. Not a lot, just a few carefully chosen dishes—he must have ordered ahead. I glance at him suspiciously. “You don’t usually plan dinners.”

“I plan wars,” he corrects smoothly. “Dinners are less stressful.”

That makes me laugh, the sound slipping out before I can stop it. And for a moment, I let myself relax, tasting the food, sipping water, letting the silence stretch between us comfortably.

But of course, he has to ruin it by staring. I feel it before I see it. His eyes on me, steady, like he’s not just looking at me but reading every expression I can’t quite hide.

“What?” I ask, finally setting my fork down.

He doesn’t even pretend to look away. “I’m memorizing this.”

My throat goes dry. “This, what?”

“This version of you.” He gestures slightly, like the words aren’t enough. “Peaceful. Teasing me without hesitation. Sitting across from me like you belong here,” he smiles, “which you do.”

I swallow hard, my fingers twisting in my lap. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re unforgettable.”

I glance out the window to escape the intensity of his words, but the city isn’t nearly enough of a distraction. My chest feels too tight, my heart too loud.

I want to say something back, something equally sharp and beautiful, but all I manage is, “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

He tilts his head, considering me for a moment. “With you? Never.”

And there it is—the swoonworthy line that does exactly what I didn’t want it to. It slips under my skin, coils around my ribs, and makes it hard to breathe evenly.

I stab at my food just to keep from blurting something ridiculous, like how dangerous it feels to be wanted this openly by him. How terrifying and tempting it is all at once.

When the plates are cleared, we don’t move to the bed, don’t do anything reckless. We just stay by the window, two glasses of wine between us, the city stretching endlessly below. He tells me small things—how long it took to build this hotel, how he fought with architects about the window placement. I tease him about his obsession with control. He teases me back about how I pretend not to like being taken care of.

It’s nothing and everything at once.