Page 31 of Trapped By the Maharaja

The sun poured through the tall arched windows of Rewa Palace, spilling light across the polished marble floors and catching on the gold carving inlaid in the walls.

The private wing of the palace was quiet, its silence broken only by the rhythmic tap of Suchitra Devi’s sandals as she walked the long corridor.

Her cream silk sari shimmered faintly in the daylight, every pleat perfectly in place, her posture regal and unyielding. She moved with the same authority she had carried for decades, which was quiet, composed, and absolute.

At the end of the hall, she stopped.

The portrait of Maharaja Rajaram Krishna Devara, her late husband, loomed tall against the sunlight.

He had been painted in his prime, dressed in ceremonial silks, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword, his gaze sharp and steady.

Age lines had already begun to etch around his mouth, and silver threaded his hair, but none of it dimmed his strength.

Devi’s eyes softened. To the people, he had been the formidable royal, unshaken by business or politics.

To her, he had been the man who accepted her with all her youthful flaws, the man who steadied her when she was just a frightened eighteen-year-old girl, suddenly made a Maharani.

She could still recall how his presence had silenced her fears, how his patience had allowed her to grow into the role she had been forced into.

But soon, she lost him. And even before she could properly mourn his loss, she was married off to another maharaja.

“Your Highness.”

The soft voice pulled her from her reverie. She turned her head slightly to see her assistant standing at a respectful distance, tablet folder in hand. He bowed low.

“The additional invitations for the Devara Palace event have been dispatched as you instructed. They were delivered personally, with every precaution taken.”

Devi inclined her head once, her expression calm. “Good. Ensure there are no delays in the confirmations.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” He bowed again and withdrew, his steps fading down the corridor until the door shut softly behind him.

Silence returned.

Devi’s eyes shifted back to her husband’s portrait, the golden light catching the painted steel of his sword. She folded her hands lightly in front of her, her bangles glinting in the sun.

“I will keep my promise, Maharaja Devara,” she murmured, her voice barely above a breath. “The Devara legacy will be protected.”

Her words carried certainty. And though her expression was serene, inside she was determined to carry out the plans that she had already set in motion.

She would do whatever it took to protect the Devara legacy.

Even if it meant standing against her own son.