CHAPTER 17
The People’s Queen
DEVRAJ
Meher’s words hadn’t left me that night. They had sat with me, lingering in the quiet corners of my mind while I tried to drown them in work, reports, and endless meetings with ministers who speak in circles.
Instead of deciding for the people, ask them what they want.
Simple. Almost too simple. But she had been right.
So against every single warning, every insistence that it wasn’t safe, that it wasn’t “the king’s place,’ I’d gone outside. Not to make a speech, not to command, not to defend myself, but to simply listen.
It had been messy. Chaotic. Men yelled about taxes, women waved their bills, farmers held their calloused hands high in frustration.
But once I’d asked them what they wanted, the shouting had dulled into conversation.
Real words. Real grievances. Some were small, some impossible, some heartbreaking.
But I listened until my head pounded, and then I listened some more.
And slowly, their anger softened into something else. Not forgiveness—not yet. But maybe… the beginning of trust.
Vihaan had seen an opening in all of this. Of course, he did. He’s sharper than anyone gives him credit for. “This is the moment to clear Maharani’s name,” he’d told me. And though I usually let the media rot in their own nonsense, I couldn’t let Meher keep bleeding from daggers she never earned.
So he’d ordered me to spin it around. Ordered, not suggested, because while I may be king, he’s the one who handles PR, and he knows how difficult it is to have me agree with anything related to the media.
He told the press the truth: that it was Meher’s idea. That the queen inspired the king to step out of the palace walls and hear his people.
Now, tonight, I sit with the headlines spread before me.
“A Commoner Queen with a Rare Wisdom.”
“From Teacher to Guide: How Rani Meher Softened the Crown.”
“The People’s Queen? Udaipur May Have Found One.”
For the first time since this marriage became a public spectacle, the weight on my chest loosens.
They aren’t sneering at her, calling her a gold-digger, a social climber, a mistake.
They’re finally seeing her for what she is—dignified, compassionate, wise in ways my gilded upbringing could never teach me.
She doesn’t deserve their cruelty, and I hate myself a little for not being able to shield her from it sooner.
Which is why, as we step out of the car at the Kali Maa temple tonight, hand-in-hand, I feel a strange rush of something I can’t quite name. Pride, perhaps. Maybe even happiness. Our first public visit as a couple—and the crowd doesn’t boo or jeer. Instead, they cheer.
Meher stiffens beside me, her eyes wide in shock at the sea of smiling faces, phones held high, flowers thrown at our feet. I tighten my grip on her hand. I want to tell her not to be afraid, that this moment belongs to her more than it does to me.
Inside, the scent of incense clings to the air, heavy and sweet.
We stand before the fierce goddess, offering our prayers together, side by side.
For strength. For clarity. For grace. Meher’s voice is low, but steady as she chants, and I find myself watching her more than the deity.
Her face glows in the flickering oil lamps, serene yet resolute, and for a moment, she looks every inch the queen she denies being.
When the priest places prasad in our hands, we don’t keep it to ourselves. Together, we turn and walk out to the waiting crowd, offering it to them with outstretched palms. The people bow their heads, taking it with reverence. And then, a small tug breaks the rhythm.
Meher’s dupatta shifts, pulled by tiny fingers. She looks down.
“Hi, Rahul,” she says softly, her face brightening like the sun breaking through clouds. She crouches down to the boy’s level, her cream fabric pooling around her.
“Miss Meher, you look pretty,” the child says, grinning with the unabashed honesty only children carry.
“Thank you,” she laughs, and I have never seen her this happy. The kind of happiness that has nothing to do with grandeur or crowns, but with being seen. Recognized. Loved for who she is.
She glances up at me, her smile explaining what words can’t. “He’s a student from my class,” she introduces.
I nod.
Then the boy looks at me. “Miss, is he your prince charming?”
Her smile falters—just for a second, but I see it. And the pang that hits my chest is sharp, merciless. Why does that question unsettle her?
Then she looks back at the boy, forcing her smile steady again. “Yes,” she says softly. “He is.”
But I don’t know if she means it. God, I don’t know if I want to know.
The boy beams, handing me a lotus with small, eager hands. I take it carefully and a thank you. His grin widens like I’ve just blessed him, and for a moment, I envy the ease with which he draws joy out of her.
We move forward, and suddenly Meher stumbles. My hand shoots out, catching her before she falls. She insists she’s okay, but I don’t believe her. The wince when she takes her next step confirms it.
I press the prasad into my assistant’s hand. “Distribute this,” I instruct curtly. My focus is only on Meher.
Leaning down, my voice low by her ear, I say, “Let me help you.”
Before she can argue, I slide an arm beneath her knees and lift her in one smooth motion, bridal style. She gasps, hands flying to grip the back of my neck.
The crowd erupts. Cheers, laughter, a few whistles. Her hold tightens instinctively. I can feel her breath against my jaw, warm, uneven. Something in me stirs at the closeness, at the way she doesn’t push me away.
“I think we should head back,” I murmur, walking quickly through the crowd toward the car.
She doesn’t argue this time.
I set her down gently in the backseat, careful with her ankle. Sliding in beside her, I catch her whisper, almost shy, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I reply automatically. But inside, I’m left wondering why she felt the need to thank me at all.
Doesn’t she know by now? Protecting her isn’t a duty. It’s something else entirely.
Something I don’t dare name.