CHAPTER 22
The Scene That Stole the Night
DEVRAJ
The ballroom glitters with chandeliers, their golden light bouncing off crystal glasses and sequined gowns.
Every corner of the palace hotel tonight hums with conversations—politics disguised as pleasantries, handshakes weighed heavier than the champagne being served.
The gala is more than my mother’s sixtieth birthday; it is a showcase of power, a reminder that the Rajmata still commands respect beyond the palace walls.
I stand near the bar, discussing expansion strategies with Abhimaan Malhotra, one of the most respected CEOs in the country, and his wife, Aditi Malhotra.
Abhimaan’s reputation precedes him—calculated, sharp, a man whose words carry the weight of markets.
But here, with Aditi by his side, he is softer, warmer, his eyes lighting up when she interjects with a thoughtful observation.
I find myself respecting them more than I expected.
Rudraksh’s sister, I realize. Rudraksh—my only ally in an industry where everyone else sees me as competition to undercut.
We don’t consider each other rivals, and that unspoken understanding has worked in our favor.
We both know that if one day we do align, it will no longer be business—it will be a monopoly.
That kind of power is dangerous, and perhaps that’s why we both stay where we are, waiting, watching, never moving until there is a need.
As I listen to Abhimaan speak about the shifting dynamics of luxury hospitality, my gaze flickers across the room—and freezes.
Meher.
She has just stepped in, and the noise of the gala, the chatter, the laughter, all fade for a heartbeat.
My breath catches before I can stop it. She wears turquoise tonight, a lehenga embroidered so finely it seems to shimmer with every step she takes.
But it isn’t the outfit—it’s her. The way the soft fabric clings to her waist, the sheer dupatta resting delicately across her shoulder, her long hair falling loose in waves that brush against her skin.
Her jewelry glints under the chandeliers, but none of it dares compete with the light in her eyes. She looks ethereal. Untouchable.
And everyone sees it. I don’t have to turn to know—the air shifts when she enters.
Conversations falter, and eyes follow her.
I should be proud. She is, after all, mine.
But the burn that rises in my chest is unfamiliar, unwelcome.
Jealousy. The urge to shield her from the stares, to claim her in front of them all, tightens inside me until I can no longer remain rooted.
I excuse myself mid-sentence, ignoring Abhimaan’s amused glance, and stride across the marble floor toward her.
She notices me almost instantly, her lips curving into the smallest smile before she leans in and whispers, “I don’t want to create a scene, Raja-sa.
It’s your mother’s birthday. I only came here for your sake. After this, I’ll leave quietly.”
Her words should soothe me, but they don’t. I tilt my head closer, catching the faint trace of jasmine in her perfume, and murmur, “You are my queen, Meher. You are the scene.”
Her eyes widen slightly, startled, and then her smile softens. It reaches her eyes this time, and for a moment, the crowded ballroom ceases to exist.
“Dance with me,” I say. It isn’t a request.
Her nod is hesitant, but it comes. I take her hand, cool and delicate in mine, and lead her toward the center of the floor.
The crowd parts instinctively, whispers following us, but I pay them no mind.
My hand rests on the small of her back as the music swells, and when she places her other hand lightly on my shoulder, it feels as if something in me has settled—finally, inevitably.
She moves with grace, every step perfectly aligned with mine.
Yet beneath the practiced elegance, there is something raw, something electric that sparks between us.
Her eyes meet mine and hold, unblinking, and the world blurs at the edges.
My hand tightens at her waist, drawing her infinitesimally closer, and her breath hitches.
It is nothing, a sound drowned by violins, but I hear it. I feel it.
The dance becomes less about steps and more about connection—the way her body fits against mine, the unspoken dialogue in our locked gaze.
She twirls, her lehenga flaring around her like a turquoise flame, and when she returns to my arms, I catch her a beat too early, unwilling to let her drift even an inch farther away.
Her cheeks flush, whether from exertion or something else, I cannot tell.
But I know one thing—every man and woman watching us now will never forget this moment. Neither will I.
When the music fades, applause erupts, but all I notice is the way her hand lingers in mine a second too long before she attempts to step back. Not yet. Not tonight.
I guide her through the crowd, introducing her to those who matter—business leaders, politicians, diplomats.
They greet her with polite smiles, some with thinly veiled curiosity.
To them she is still new, still a question mark.
But beside me, she holds herself with quiet dignity, answering softly, smiling just enough.
And I find myself watching her more than I should, pride swelling with every word she speaks.
After a while, I notice the way her shoulders slump, how she discreetly adjusts the heavy crown woven into her hair. Tired. She won’t say it aloud, but I see it. I always see it.
“Let’s go,” I murmur against her ear.
“Where?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I take her hand in mine and lead her through the side doors, away from the glitter and the noise, down the quieter corridors of the palace hotel. She doesn’t protest, only follows, the click of her heels echoing against marble.
When we reach her room, I push the door open and step inside with her.
She turns, a question in her eyes, but I silence it by reaching for her crown.
Gently, carefully, I unfasten it and lift it away, setting it aside on the dresser.
“Too heavy for your first gala,” I murmur, my voice lower than I intend.
My fingers graze the side of her neck as I free the last pin, and I feel her shiver beneath my touch. Her breath catches—just once, sharp and quick—but it is enough to unravel me. My hand lingers a fraction longer than necessary, and desire coils hot and insistent in my chest.
I step back. I have to. Because if I don’t, if I let myself stay close, I will lose control.
The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we don’t say. Her gaze drops to the floor, then flickers back up to me, questioning, daring, and something unspoken hangs in the air like static.
I take another step back, forcing the air into my lungs. Not tonight. Not like this.
But the thought of her—her turquoise silhouette, her breath trembling against my fingertips—will haunt me long after the gala ends.