CHAPTER 47
A Name on the List
DEVRAJ
Vihaan’s voice cuts through the quiet of my study, carrying that hint of hesitance he always has when he’s not entirely sure how I’ll react. “Bhai-sa… there are two dancing events where someone named Meher Sharma has been registered.”
The name strikes me sharper than I expect. My hand stills on the papers I’ve been pretending to read for the past hour, my mind catching on those two words—her old name. My wife’s name before she became my wife. Before all of this.
“Give me that,” I say, sharper than intended, and I snatch the papers from his hand. My eyes skim down the list, scanning, burning through the black ink until they find it. There it is. Meher Sharma. Registered in two places. Udaipur. Jaipur.
For a moment, my chest tightens. A pulse of longing, sharper than breath. She’s here, somewhere close. Not far away in some corner of the world where my men couldn’t trace her. She’s here.
But she wouldn’t be foolish enough to sign up under her married name.
No. Too smart for that. Too careful. She knows how I think, knows how to vanish when she wants to.
But still, she left this—her old name—as if some part of her didn’t want to cut herself off completely. As if she wanted me to find her.
I glance up at Vihaan, who’s watching me like he’s trying to read what this means to me. He doesn’t understand. He can’t. “She can’t be in Udaipur,” I say, the certainty rising unbidden. “She’s too smart for that.” My voice is firm, final. “I’m going to Jaipur tomorrow.”
Vihaan frowns, brows knitting. “But… how can you be so sure—”
“I know my wife, brother,” I cut him off, sharper than I mean to, but I don’t care. My chest feels like it’s cracking open, like everything I’ve been holding tight is spilling out. “That’s how.”
His lips part, but I don’t give him space to argue. I reach out and pat his shoulder, grounding myself with the familiar gesture. “Thank you,” I say, softer this time. For finding this. For handing me this thin thread of her.
I take two steps toward the door before something twists in me, forces me to turn back. My voice drops low, almost a confession as I meet his eyes. “If she asks me…” My throat tightens. My jaw clenches. “If she asks me, I would leave the crown.”
Vihaan’s mouth falls open as if I’ve just spoken blasphemy. “Bhai-sa—”
“Then naturally, it will be yours,” I say, not unkindly. A statement of fact, not pressure. “The line will fall to you.”
He shakes his head quickly, violently, like he can shake off the weight of what I’m saying. His lips part, panic sparking in his eyes.
“But if you wish not to,” I cut in, not letting him drown in it, “it will pass on to Veeraj. And then… Sitara.” The words feel heavy in my mouth, but they’re true. Our family has never been one to let the crown sit idle. It moves where it must.
His voice drops to a whisper. “And if… no one wishes for it?”
I hold his gaze steadily. “Then we will dissolve this,” I state simply. And I mean it. What is a crown worth if it keeps me from her? What is any of this worth if she’s not here to share it with me?
I don’t wait for his answer. I can’t. If I stand here any longer, the weight of centuries of duty, of expectation, will pin me down. I turn and walk out, each step heavier than the last but driven by the same truth pulsing through me: tomorrow, I will see her.
Meher Sharma.
Her name echoes in my mind, her old name. The name she bore before she ever stepped into my world, before the vows, before the silks and jewels and the burden of being my queen. The name that is hers alone, stripped of all ties to me.
Did she choose it because she wanted to feel like herself again? To shed the weight of being Rani-sa? Or did she leave it behind like a trail of breadcrumbs, a challenge for me to follow?
I picture her face when I find her tomorrow.
The way her eyes widen when she sees me, the way her lips part just slightly as if she can’t decide whether to smile or cry.
Will she run to me again, like she did that night in her room?
Or will she turn away, cold and furious, daring me to close the distance?
I don’t know. But I know this—when I see her tomorrow, I won’t let her go again. Not without hearing her truth from her own lips. Not without letting her hear mine.
The papers are still crumpled in my fist, her name smudged from where my thumb pressed too hard. Meher Sharma. Two simple words. But they burn like fire in my veins, pulling me forward.
Tomorrow, Jaipur. Tomorrow, her. Tomorrow, everything changes.