Page 75 of The Promised Queen

He actually walks out.

My mouth falls open. How dare he? How can he just leave when I’m this angry? If he had said “sorry” one more time—just once more—I might have forgiven him. But now? Now, I won’t.

I flop onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, my arms spread out like I’ve fought a war and lost. The nerve of this man.

The door creaks again, and my head snaps up.

He’s back.

And in his hand—there’s a canvas. A large one, half-hidden behind his frame.

“What is that?” I demand, narrowing my eyes.

He doesn’t answer. Just walks in slowly, almost hesitantly, until he’s standing right in front of me. Then he turns the canvas around.

My breath catches.

It’s me.

Or rather, it’s his version of me. Painted in strokes that feel alive, colors that breathe emotion. I’m dancing—caught mid-spin, lehenga swirling like petals, my hair flying free, my smile… oh God. That smile. I look at it and almost don’t recognize myself.

“Is that… me?” My voice sounds small, uncertain.

He chuckles softly, eyes twinkling. “Who else would it be, Rani-sa?”

I rise slowly, my feet carrying me closer without my permission. My fingers tremble as they graze the edge of the canvas. She looks so beautiful—the woman in the painting. So free, so alive. Could that really be me?

“This…” My throat tightens. “This can’t be me.”

“It is you, Meher.” His voice is firm now, as if daring me to argue. “The way I see you.”

Something inside me splinters.

“I picked up the brush after years, Meher,” he continues, softer now, almost vulnerable. “My art… it may not be perfect—”

“It’s perfect,” I cut in, my voice thick.

His eyes lock on mine, and there’s something in them that makes my heart pound harder. He smiles then—slow, devastating.

“But would you,” he steps closer, “be my muse forever?”

A startled laugh escapes me. “This would be such a good line to use if you were proposing to someone.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You think so?”

Before I can respond, he bends down on one knee.

I freeze. “Raja-sa!”

He looks up at me, grin tugging at his lips but eyes dead serious. “What are you doing?” I whisper, half-shocked, half-terrified.

“Proposing to my wife, apparently.”

“I was kidding, Devraj!”

“So what?” His tone is playful, but there’s steel beneath it—the kind that means he’s not stopping now. “The thought came into your mind, and I’ll fulfill it.”

He slips off one of his rings—a heavy, intricate piece that suddenly feels like the most precious thing on earth.