Page 60 of The Promised Queen

Suitcase and flowers

MEHER

The suitcase looks wrong against the carved rosewood of my room. Too modern, too out of place. Its zippered edges and black wheels do not belong here, among the silks, the gilded furniture, the pale marble floor. It looks like something I dragged in from another life, the one I had before this palace, beforehim.

I smooth my palm over the fabric of my dupatta and look at it again. I should close it, lock it, shove it in a corner until the morning. Instead, I sit cross-legged on the bed, staring at it like it’s mocking me.

How did I come to this?

I don’t want to go. God, every part of me doesn’t want to go. But Rajmata’s words from the temple coil in my head like snakes, hissing, reminding me of every chaos that’s followed since I became Meher Singh Shekhawat—the whispered scandals, the articles, the disapproving stares.

She was right. He’s been under fire since me. And if I love him—really love him—shouldn’t I let him breathe?

The door creaks before I can chase that thought any further.

“Meher?”

His voice is low, familiar, grounding. My heart lurches violently in my chest.

Raja-sa steps inside, his presence filling the space even though he does nothing but lean lightly against the doorframe at first. His gaze falls on the suitcase almost instantly. His brows draw together.

For a moment, silence.

Then, his voice, steady but threaded with something I can’t name. “Are you going somewhere?”

My throat tightens. I should lie. I should make this easy. I force myself to nod. “Yes.”

He crosses the room in those unhurried strides of his—the kind that are somehow both graceful and commanding. He stops near the edge of the bed, eyes flicking between my face and the suitcase. “Where?”

I swallow, fighting the urge to reach for his hand right now, to hold on like a child. Instead, I hear myself say, “I think I should meet my father once. It’s… been a long time.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He sits down next to me instead, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. His hand reaches for mine without hesitation, his fingers enveloping mine as though they’ve belonged there forever.

A lump rises in my throat so suddenly it hurts.

“Do you really have to go?” he asks softly.

I nod, afraid if I open my mouth, everything will spill out—the truth, my fear, my love, my weakness.

“I will send two guards with you.”

“Maharaj—” The word slips out sharper than I intend, and he flinches almost imperceptibly. His eyes search mine, questioning, wounded. My chest aches.

I force my voice to steady. “I am going to meet my father.”

I look away quickly, unable to bear the pull of his gaze. If I do, I will lose myself in those dark, steady eyes. I will forget every reason, every plan, every lie. And if he stays here long enough, I will break completely.

Why is this so hard?

I want to tell you, Raja-sa. I want to tell you everything. That I’m not leaving you—not really. That I could never. That all I want is to stay, always, by your side. But I cannot. Not when staying might ruin you. Not when loving me could be your undoing.

“Meher.”

My name on his lips is a whisper, tender and weighted all at once. His hand tightens around mine.

“Have I done something to make you mad?” His voice is low, careful, like he’s walking barefoot over glass. “Are you angry with me?”

My head snaps up. The idea is so absurd, so heartbreakingly innocent, I almost laugh.