CHAPTER 7
Terms of a Queen
DEVRAJ
She sits across from me, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her chin lifted—not high enough to seem defiant, but not low enough to seem submissive, either. It’s that perfect in-between where she could tilt either way, depending on what happens next.
The confusion from our last meeting is gone. No furrowed brows, no restless shifting in her seat, no incredulous, “What are you talking about, Maharaj?” She looks… settled. No—settled isn’t the word. Composed.
It’s the kind of calm that makes you think of still water—flat and quiet on the surface, but you know it’s hiding currents strong enough to drag you under.
“I agree,” she says, her voice even. Each word feels weighed in her mind before she lets it out, like she’s laying stones in a straight path and making sure they’re steady before she steps. I don’t miss the tiny pause before the next line. “But I have some conditions.”
I almost laugh. Conditions. She’s proposing conditions… to me. To a king. Not bargaining for more gold or better jewels, not trying to charm me into granting her extra privileges. Not lowering her eyes and softening her voice so I feel magnanimous for saying yes.
No—she’s looking right at me. Calm. Steady. As if we’re discussing curtain colors.
She’s gutsy, I’ll give her that. And maybe… maybe I like that more than I should.
I lean back in my chair, letting my fingers tap once against the armrest, keeping my tone light. “I’m listening.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “First, I can still dance and teach in the royal school.”
She says it like it’s carved in stone. Like if I refuse, she’ll stand up, walk away, and I’ll never see her again. And I believe she would.
I don’t answer right away. I’m watching her. That tilt of her head—barely there, but enough to tell me she’s trying to read me.
No fear in her gaze. Just… expectation.
“What are the other conditions?” I ask, shifting forward before she decides I’m refusing the first.
“My father,” she says, steady as before.
“You will take care of him financially. And—”her lips twitch, not in amusement but in something closer to resignation—“…I won’t be expected to take on any royal responsibilities.
Because, let’s be honest—” she lets out a short, humorless breath “—I’m clearly not made for it. ”
I just look at her for a moment.
The women who’ve sat across from me in this very chair have wanted titles, silk-lined rooms, their names etched in gold. They’ve rehearsed which fork to lift first at a royal dinner before they even stepped inside this palace.
But her… she’s not here to collect a crown for her dressing table. She’s here to bargain for her survival. And she knows she’s not what anyone imagines beside a king. She’s not pretending to be. She’s not apologizing, either.
There’s a bluntness to her that would terrify most people in my position. But for me… it’s almost freeing.
I nod slowly. “I accept. For the last condition, though—” I catch the faint narrowing of her eyes, suspicion flickering there “—as the queen, you will be expected to accompany me to certain events. But I assure you, you don’t have to involve yourself in the political side of things.”
She studies me for a long second, then nods once. No smile. No sigh of relief. Just agreement.
She stands. “Then I’ll see you at the wedding, Maharaj. Let me know when it is.”
Her hand comes forward—small, steady, offered like an equal’s.
For a heartbeat, I just look at it. Then I take it. Her grip is firm—no trembling fingers, no limp politeness. It’s as if she’s making sure I know she’s not intimidated.
I glance toward my assistant. He steps forward, handing her my business card. She accepts it without looking, until I add, “This has my assistant’s number and the official line. On the back is my personal number. Call me if you need anything.”
Her eyes flick to me for half a second before she slides the card into her hand.
She turns toward the door. That’s when I notice—her fingers tightening around the card, the edges bending under her grip. She stops. Her back is still to me, but I can feel it. She’s wrestling with something.
When she turns, her eyes are locked on mine. I can see it now—her pride and her necessity pulling in opposite directions.
“I…” She breathes in, the kind of breath you take before stepping into freezing water. “I need money to pay the rent. Today is the last date.”
Her voice is flat, almost mechanical, but I see the cost in her eyes.
I nod once. “It will be taken care of.” No warmth in my tone. No pity, either. Not because I’m cold, because I know she doesn’t want it.
The background check told me her life hasn’t been easy, but paper doesn’t show you how someone holds their head when the ground’s been yanked out from under them. It doesn’t show you how they can sit in front of a king and make demands without blinking.
And here I am—born into this palace, handed everything—and I’m thinking how much stronger she is than me.
Baapu-sa was right. She might help me carry the weight of this crown better.
Not because of love—this is no fairy tale. But because she survives storms I’ve never even had to stand in.
Meher nods once in acknowledgment, turns, and walks away.
And I know this won’t be the last time I watch her leave with her head high.
The difference is, next time, she’ll be leaving as my wife.