Chapter 9 A Palace, a Room, and a Door That Won’t Open
A Palace, a Room, and a Door That Won’t Open
SITARA
By the time night truly settles in, the day feels like something I lived in another lifetime.
All the rituals are done. Every chant, every blessing, every careful step dictated by tradition has been completed, checked off like a list the universe insisted on finishing before letting me breathe again.
Somewhere between the endless smiles, the polite nods, the ceremonial welcomes, and the overwhelming kindness of people who now call me their Rajrani, the day slipped past me.
We arrived at Dhruv’s palace hours ago.
I remember it in fragments, like scenes stitched together without a clear beginning or end.
The towering gates opening slowly, almost ceremonially.
The sound of drums echoing through stone corridors.
Flower petals raining down as I stepped out of the car, my hand instinctively tightening around Dhruv’s arm because suddenly everything felt too big, too grand, too unreal.
I remember his mother performing the aarti, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes softening when she looked at me.
I remember Yagini whispering something sarcastic under her breath that made Dhruv groan and me smile despite myself.
I remember being led inside, welcomed, blessed, admired—words blurring together until they lost meaning.
Now, hours later, the palace is quieter. Not silent, but calmer. Like it’s exhaled after holding its breath all day.
I sit on the edge of a long sofa in the sitting area outside our room, my hands folded in my lap, twisting the fabric of my pallu without meaning to. My bangles clink softly every time I move, the sound too loud in the stillness.
Dhruv stands near the window, loosening the cuff of his sherwani, his posture relaxed in a way that makes my chest feel tight for reasons I don’t yet have words for.
“So,” he says lightly, turning to face me, a small smile playing on his lips. “Tour?”
My heart stutters.
I nod, then immediately regret it. “Yes. I mean—if you’re not tired.”
“I’m fine,” he says easily. “And even if I weren’t, I promised.”
He offers his hand. Just like that. I stare at it for half a second too long before placing my hand in his.
The contact is… startling. His palm is warm, his grip gentle but sure.
Electricity isn’t the right word—it’s too dramatic—but there’s something there, something that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
We walk.
The palace at night is quieter, softer. Corridors stretch long and elegant, lit by warm lamps instead of harsh chandeliers. My footsteps echo faintly, and I become acutely aware of how close he is to me. Every now and then, our hands brush—an accidental graze of fingers, a shift in grip.
The first time it happens, I freeze.
The second time, I pull my hand away instinctively, my fingers curling into themselves like I’ve been burned.
Dhruv stops immediately.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Did I—?”
“No,” I blurt out, too fast. “No, you didn’t. I just—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
I trail off, embarrassed by my own inability to finish a sentence.
He studies me for a moment, something thoughtful passing over his face, and then he nods. “Okay.”
That’s it.
No questions. No pressure.
We keep walking, a careful distance between us now, and somehow that feels worse. I don’t understand my own body—how it reacts before my mind can catch up, how a simple brush of skin can leave me rattled.
He shows me the library first.
“This is my favorite place,” he admits, his voice quieter here, as if the books are listening. “When things get too loud.”
I glance at him, surprised. He catches my look and shrugs. “Kings need escape routes, too.”
I smile despite myself. “You don’t read though, do you?” I narrow my eyes at him, remembering how he mentioned once that he’s not into reading, and I told him he just hadn’t found the right books.
“I am already very knowledgeable.” He shrugs, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
We move through galleries lined with paintings and photographs, family history etched into walls I’m now somehow a part of. He doesn’t linger too long anywhere, sensing my overwhelm without me having to say it.
And then—eventually—we stop in front of a door. “Our room,” he says.
My stomach flips.
He pushes the door open.
The scent hits me first—roses, jasmine, something sweet and soft that wraps around me like a hush. The room is bathed in warm light, lamps casting gentle shadows against the walls. Flowers are everywhere—on the bed, on the side tables, scattered like someone tried to turn the room into a dream.
I stop just inside the doorway, my cheeks heating instantly.
“Oh,” I manage.
Dhruv clears his throat, suddenly looking far less composed. “I—this is…I don’t know—”
Before he can finish, the door swings shut behind us with a decisive click.
We both turn.
Locked.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, from the other side of the door, a familiar voice rings out far too cheerfully. “You can thank me later, guys!”
Yagini.
I hear her giggle and the sound of retreating footsteps.
My jaw drops. “Did your sister just—?”
“Yes,” Dhruv says flatly. “She absolutely did.”