Page 37 of The Promised Queen

The Weight of Truth

DEVRAJ

I can still feel the ghost of her lips on mine. The memory lingers as though it happened just a breath ago, her soft warmth pressed against me, a moment I never saw coming but one that has lodged itself deep in my chest. The ministers’ voices around me blur and flatten, their words about policies, reforms, and figures sound like a faraway drone. I nod when required, keeping the mask of composure on my face, but inside, I am replaying that kiss again and again, each second carved into me.

The heavy double doors creak open. I don’t need to look up to know who it is; the sharp, unsteady pace tells me enough. Vihaan. His arrival isn’t gentle—he moves with urgency, cutting into the gravity of the room. The ministers shift uneasily, some exchange glances at the breach in formality. I steel myself and lift my head.

“Kuwar Vihaan,” I say evenly, keeping my irritation tucked beneath my tone. “I am a bit busy.”

“Maharaj,” his voice is rough, stripped of its usual playfulness, “this cannot wait.”

Something in the way he says it makes me pause. I hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then close the thick folder in front of me. The ministers straighten in their seats, ready to listen further, but I shake my head. “We can continue this next time.” I dismiss them, rising from my chair. They bow reluctantly, their rustling robes and voices fading as they file out.

The moment the doors close, Vihaan thrusts a folded tabloid into my hands. His face looks as though he hasn’t blinked in hours. I open it, the glossy pages trembling slightly as I flatten them against the table. The headline screams at me in bold black letters, cruel and loud: Queen Meher Once Danced in a Bar. Beneath it, a photograph of her—grainy, suspiciously captured, her smile frozen in mid-motion, dressed in a way that doesn’t belong to her world now but painted in a way that feeds their story.

My vision narrows. Fury burns through my veins, hot and unrelenting. “They will not let us rest,” I mutter under my breath, my jaw tightening. The ink stains my fingertips as though it wants to brand me with its filth. I crumple the edge of the paper before forcing myself to let go.

Vihaan sighs beside me, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve already sent word to track the source, but it’s spreading faster than we can contain. People are talking.”

And then, as if summoned by our tension, Veeraj strides down the hall toward us. His expression is pinched, his phone in one hand. “The stock prices are crashing,” he says bluntly, his voice clipped. “You need to solve this—now.”

He points at Vihaan, accusing.

“Dude, what do you think I am trying to do?” Vihaan snaps back, his voice rising with the weight of his own frustration.

The sound of their bickering scrapes at my already frayed nerves. I slam the tabloid shut and cut in sharply, “Guys.” The echo of my voice stills them both. “This is not the time to fight amongst each other.” My tone leaves no room for argument. I tuck the tabloid under my arm and walk away, my steps heavy but deliberate.

There is only one person whose voice I need to hear in this storm. Meher’s.

I knock softly at her door. There’s a pause before it swings open, and there she stands. Meher. Her smile blooms the second her eyes meet mine, bright, unguarded, shy. She looks as though she’s been waiting for me, though she would never say it aloud. For a fleeting heartbeat, I forget the poison I hold tucked under my arm.

“Hi.” Her voice carries that softness only she has, the kind that sinks straight into me.

“Hi,” I answer, and my tone surprises me—it’s softer than I intend, almost tender. She doesn’t know. That smile tells me enough.

I look at her, really look. If what the paper says is true, it changes nothing about the woman in front of me. She lived through a world I can barely comprehend, a world I—sheltered by palaces, wealth, and power—wouldn’t have survived a single night in. If she had to do something like that… then so be it. My anger belongs to the ones who made her, not her. And yet, I need to know.

“I… I have to show you something,” I whisper, my voice lowering as though speaking too loud will shatter her smile.

Her brows knit slightly, the corners of her lips faltering as I unfold the tabloid and hold it out to her. She takes it, her eyes skimming the words, then freezing on the photograph. Her pupils widen, shock rippling through her like a stone cast into still water. Her head snaps up to me.

“This is me,” she says, her finger trembling as she points at the blurred photo.

I nod once.

“But I never…” Her voice breaks, and I hear her breathing quicken. “I have never, Raja-sa.” Her brows draw together, anguish carving across her face.

“Hey. Hey,” I murmur quickly, reaching for her before she falls apart. My hands steady her shoulders, pulling her closer. She feels small against me, fragile in a way I rarely allow myself to see her.

“It’s okay,” I tell her firmly, grounding her. “I will take care of it, okay?”

Her eyes shine, frantic. “This is not me, Raja-sa, I promise.”

I hum softly, holding her closer. Her words echo in the hollow space of my chest.

After a long, charged silence, her voice breaks again, muffled against me. “Do you believe me?”

I lower my chin, searching her face until her eyes find mine. And in that moment, the answer is the easiest thing I’ve ever given.