CHAPTER 8
Among Queens and Stars
POORVI
I smooth the pleats of my purple lehenga for the tenth time, my fingers betraying my nerves even when I tell myself I’m fine. The corridor ahead opens into a sunlit drawing room, and I pause at the threshold, heart thumping like a guilty secret.
You’re his wife now, Poorvi. You belong here.
The first thing I notice when I step into the room is the warmth. Not the physical one that comes from sunlight spilling through arched windows, but the sort that seeps into your bones quietly—like an unspoken welcome.
And then I see them.
Maharani Meher. Rajkumari Sitara.
Two women who carry the weight of Shekhawat royalty so effortlessly that for a second, I wonder if I’ve walked into a frame from one of those glossy magazines.
Maharani stands near the carved console, arranging fresh lilies into a porcelain vase.
There’s something commanding about the way she moves—precise, purposeful, like every gesture has meaning.
Her presence fills the room without her even trying.
She’s dressed simply in a pale green anarkali, but the elegance in the attire, the sharp set of her shoulders, the calm confidence in her posture—it screams authority.
Yet, somehow, she doesn’t intimidate me. And that surprises me.
Because authority usually does.
I discovered that about myself in college.
There was this professor—Sir Omprakash. He was a man who believed fear was the foundation of respect.
His voice was thunder, his temper unpredictable.
Every time he called my name, my stomach knotted so hard I could barely breathe.
And standing here now, looking at Maharani’s poise, I half expect that same anxious ripple to course through me.
But it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s because her eyes, when they finally meet mine, aren’t cold. They’re sharp, yes, and observant, but there’s a quiet warmth in them. Like a queen who knows her power but chooses kindness instead of cruelty.
And then there’s Rajkumari Sitara.
If Maharani is moonlight—serene and controlled—Rajkumari Sitara is sunlight on a summer morning.
Bright, unfiltered, spilling everywhere without apology.
She’s perched on the edge of a chaise, one leg tucked under her, scrolling through her phone.
The moment she looks up, a grin splits her face wide open.
“Oh my God, finally!” she exclaims, bounding toward me with an energy that nearly startles me. Before I can react, her arms are around me in a quick, soft hug that smells like vanilla and something floral.
“We were starting to think Vihaan locked you in the tower.” I feel my cheeks heat up. I look away and bow in front of the queen.
Maharani’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “Please,” she exclaims. “You don’t need to do that, you’re family now.” She smiles.
“Rajkumari—” I begin, but Rajkumari Sitara frowns.
“Please drop the Rajkumari,” she smiles, and I nod.
Before I can respond, Maharani joins us, her smile gentler but just as sincere. “She’s right. You don’t need titles here, Poorvi. Not with us. We are family.”
Family. The word rolls around in my head, strange and heavy, like it’s trying to find a place to settle but can’t.
People here use it so casually, it makes my heart ache a bit.
I have never had this ease, this sense of belongingness that they have and somehow it upsets me but I don’t want to delve more into it.
I swallow, the knot in my stomach loosening just a little. “Okay,” I whisper.
Sitara beams, looping her arm through mine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “See? That wasn’t hard. Now, come sit. We have so much to talk about. Like, where were you hiding all this time? Vihaan barely told us anything except—”
“Sitara,” Meher’s tone slices through the air like silk over steel. Calm, but enough to make Sitara roll her eyes dramatically and zip her lips.
I can’t help it—I smile. A real one. They’re… different from what I expected. Softer. Warmer. Like maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought.
But then a thought sneaks in, sharp and unwelcome. Blending in isn’t easy for me. It never has been.
People think that because I studied psychology, I must have life figured out. That I know how to navigate every anxious spiral, every sharp edge of insecurity. But that’s the thing—knowing the theory doesn’t stop you from drowning in the practice.
Sometimes I need someone else to throw me a rope. To remind me I’m not alone. Unfortunately though I haven’t found that someone.
“Poorvi?” Sitara’s voice drags me back. She’s watching me with a curious tilt to her head. “You zoned out for a second. Everything okay?”
“Yes. Just… a lot on my mind,” I say quickly, forcing a small smile.
“Understandable.” Meher’s voice is calm, grounding. “You’ve had busy days.”
I nod, my fingers twisting the edge of my dupatta before I catch myself.
Sitara squeezes my arm suddenly, her grin mischievous. “Don’t worry. By the end of this week, you’ll forget what nerves even feel like. We’ll do temple visits, movie nights—I’ll even sneak you out for ice cream if Vihaan doesn’t play the overprotective husband card.”
The mention of his name sends an odd warmth crawling up my neck. I open my mouth to respond—but then my phone buzzes on the table.
No. Not the phone.
The door.
My head snaps up so fast I almost drop my dupatta.
Vihaan stands at the entrance, one hand casually resting against the doorframe.
He looks… unreasonably good in a crisp white kurta, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he walked out of a magazine shoot without trying.
His eyes find mine instantly, and something flickers there—something I can’t name.
Sitara follows my gaze, and then her lips curl into the most wicked grin I’ve ever seen. She wiggles her eyebrows at me, and I swear my face bursts into flames.
“Poorvi,” he says, his voice low, that hint of huskiness curling around my name like smoke. “Can I steal you for a moment?”
Before I can react, Meher speaks, her tone light but teasing. “You can talk in front of us, too, Vihaan.”
Vihaan laughs, that low, easy sound that does ridiculous things to my heartbeat. “Again, Bhai-sa won’t like it, Bhabhi-sa, if I say the same.” He raises an eyebrow as if it’s their inside joke.
Meher squints at him, and the entire exchange feels so effortlessly playful that for a second, I forget to breathe.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to Sitara and Meher, getting to my feet before my blush burns through my skin.
As I walk toward Vihaan, I can feel Sitara’s gaze drilling into my back like a nosy little spotlight. I don’t dare look at her.
Vihaan smiles as I stop in front of him, and suddenly, the world narrows to just us. “Are you okay?”
I blink. “I… yes.” I nod, a little too quickly.
“Okay,” he says, like that settles everything. But he doesn’t move. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, eyes steady on mine.
After a beat of silence, the question slips out before I can stop it. “You came all the way here… to ask me if I’m okay?” I gape at him. Because really? He could’ve sent a message. A staff member. Anything.
But he nods, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s very important to me to know if you’re comfortable or not.”
My throat tightens, words tangling like threads. I’m fine, Vihaan. I try to hide the storm inside. “Thank you so much for asking,” I whisper.
His brows knit, and then his expression shifts, something like irritation flickering there.
“Don’t thank me,” he says sharply enough to make me blink.
“It makes me feel like someone’s paying me to be your husband.
” He huffs out a breath, raking a hand through his hair.
“I’m your husband. I’m supposed to care about you. ”
The words should comfort me, but instead they sting—just a little.
Because duty isn’t love. Obligation isn’t care.
But am I expecting love out of this marriage?
I really don’t know the answer to that. But a girl can only dream, right?
Especially if her husband is so polite, so caring—more than anyone she has ever met, more than her own family.
Until and unless this is all a facade, I think I want to hope a bit.
I had stopped hoping a long time ago. Maa used to say hope is the biggest strength and weakness a human can have.
I stare at him, my voice dropping to a whisper I’m not sure he’ll even hear. “I don’t want it if you’re doing it just because you’re supposed to.”
For a heartbeat, silence stretches taut between us. Then his hand lifts, slow and steady, and tilts my chin up with two fingers. My breath catches as his eyes lock on mine—dark, intent, holding me in place.
“I’m sorry for the choice of my words,” he says softly, and the sincerity there makes something in my chest ache. “I do care about you.”
And then he smiles. So gently. So genuinely. The kind of smile that steals all your defenses and leaves you standing there, bare and breathless.
I smile back, helpless against it.
Inside my head, one thought beats loud and clear: You’re dangerous, Vihaan Shekhawat. Not because you’re powerful. But because you’re kind. And I don’t know what that will do to me.