Chapter 24 Quiet Cuts
Quiet Cuts
SITARA
The terrace is my favorite place in this palace.
It shouldn’t be. There are grander balconies, wider courtyards, rooms with ceilings painted by artists whose names people still remember centuries later. But this terrace—quiet, slightly removed, wrapped in open sky—lets me breathe in a way the rest of the palace doesn’t.
The air is cool tonight. Not cold, just enough to raise goosebumps on my arms as I walk barefoot across the stone floor.
The city lights glow faintly in the distance, blurred by a thin veil of mist. Somewhere below, I can hear soft laughter from the staff quarters, utensils clinking, life continuing without knowing how heavy my chest feels.
I rest my hands on the railing and inhale slowly.
In.
Out.
I tell myself I came here to clear my head. To calm down after the movie night. To stop replaying the way Dhruv’s arm felt solid and warm beneath my fingers, the way he didn’t pull away when I clung to him, the way he didn’t make me feel foolish or dramatic or too much.
But that’s not the whole truth. The truth is—I’m restless.
Too many feelings have been piling up inside me these past weeks. Gratitude. Fear. A strange, frightening tenderness. A growing awareness of myself around Dhruv that I don’t quite know how to name yet. And beneath it all, something older. Something I thought I had buried deeper than this.
I hear soft footsteps behind me.
I don’t turn immediately. I already know who it is.
“Rani sa?” Maya’s voice is gentle, almost careful. “Do you need anything?”
I straighten slightly. “No,” I say, keeping my tone polite. Neutral. “I was just walking.”
She hums softly, like she’s acknowledging my answer but not really accepting it. I feel her presence a few steps behind me, close enough that my shoulders tense without my permission.
There’s something about her that always makes me feel… off-balance. It’s subtle. Not overt hostility. Not warmth either. Just a faint, persistent pressure, like standing too close to a wall without realizing it.
“May I say something?” she asks.
Every instinct in me says no.
I don’t like the way she looks at me sometimes. I don’t like the tightness of her smiles. I don’t like the way my chest always feels heavier after she speaks.
But years of conditioning don’t disappear overnight. Years of being taught that saying no makes you difficult, ungrateful, dramatic.
So I nod.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
She steps closer. I don’t turn, but I can feel her now, standing beside me, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“Don’t you think,” she begins, her voice careful, almost hesitant, “that you should put in at least some effort into looking good for Raja-sa?”
The words hit me like a slap I didn’t see coming.
I blink once.
Then again.
My fingers curl tighter around the railing.
She continues, her tone still maddeningly soft. “I mean… sure, he married you. But everyone knows it was out of pity.”
My breath stutters.
Pity.
The word sinks into my skin like a bruise.
“It’s unfair to him, really,” she goes on, as if she’s discussing something reasonable. “That he got… well. The short end of the stick.”
I swallow hard. My throat feels too tight, like I’ve forgotten how to use it.
“I just think,” she adds, tilting her head slightly, “you should try dieting. Lose at least… some weight. So you don’t embarrass him that much.”
She lets out a small, almost apologetic sigh. “I’m sorry if I’m saying too much. I just wanted you to know.”
And then she walks away. Just like that. No raised voice. No obvious cruelty. No witnesses. Just words, left behind like shards of glass. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t even blink for a few seconds, because if I do, I’m afraid something inside me will finally crack open.
Out of pity.
The terrace feels suddenly too large. Too exposed. The sky above me stretches endlessly, uncaring, while my chest caves inward.
I press my palm flat against my stomach without realizing it.
My mind starts spiraling before I can stop it.
Maybe she’s right.
The thought arrives quietly, deceptively calm.
He’s kind. He’s always been kind. Of course he would marry me when I was abandoned. Of course he would step in. That’s who Dhruv is.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass railing—soft edges, familiar curves, the body I’ve learned to live in after years of therapy and unlearning cruelty.
But kindness isn’t the same as desire.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I think of Dhruv’s hand on my stomach when I was in pain. The way he stayed. The way he listened. The way he looked at me—not like I was something fragile he had to tolerate, but like I mattered.
And then Maya’s voice slips back into my head, insidious and calm.
He got the short end of the stick.
My chest tightens painfully.
I hate how quickly the old habits wake up. The counting. The comparing. The silent mental list of everything that’s “wrong” with me. Too big. Too soft. Too noticeable. I thought I was past this. I worked to get past this.
Years of therapy. Of learning to separate my worth from my weight. Of understanding that my body is not a moral failure. That existing loudly, visibly, is not a crime.
And yet—One voice. Just one.
And suddenly I’m twelve again, standing in front of a mirror, tugging at my clothes and wondering why I can’t disappear into them like other girls do.
I press my forehead against the cool stone of the railing.
Why am I letting her get to me?
I know what she’s doing.
I know.
She’s been subtle, but not invisible. The comments disguised as concern. The “helpful” suggestions. The way she watches Dhruv when she thinks no one notices.
I know jealousy when I see it. So why does it still hurt? Because some part of me is tired. Tired of always having to be strong. Tired of always having to prove that I deserve space. I imagine Dhruv hearing those words.
My stomach twists violently.
Would he laugh them off? Dismiss them? Get angry?
Or would some small part of him—some quiet, logical part—agree?
The thought makes my eyes burn.
I hate myself for thinking it. I tell myself—immediately, instinctively—that she’s wrong.
I tell myself Dhruv has never looked at me with anything but warmth. That he touches me like I’m something precious, not something to tolerate. That he almost cancelled an entire event because I had a headache. That he held me for hours when I was in pain without once making me feel like a burden.
I tell myself all of that.
But the problem with words like hers is that they don’t argue with logic. They slip in through old cracks.
He married you out of pity.
My mind recoils at the thought. No. That’s not true. He chose me. He stood up when no one else did. He—
The short end of the stick.
A smaller voice whispers: What if she’s right?
I press my lips together, suddenly aware of my body in a way I hadn’t been five minutes ago. The way my shawl sits across my shoulders. The curve of my stomach beneath the fabric. The softness I’ve learned—worked—to stop apologizing for.
My reflection flashes uninvited in my mind. From mirrors I’ve avoided. From angles that aren’t forgiving.
You should try dieting.
I laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. I’ve been trying my whole life. The wind brushes past me again, cooler this time, and I shiver.
Why does it still work? Why, after therapy and progress and self-talk and knowing better, does one sentence from the wrong person still manage to dig its claws in?
I hate that part of myself. The part that immediately wonders if I should skip dessert tomorrow.
If I should cancel breakfast. If I should “just be careful” for a while.
I hate how quickly shame masquerades as responsibility. Maybe she’s right, whispers the traitorous voice. Maybe he deserves better. Someone… lighter. Easier. Someone who doesn’t need painkillers and heating pads and reassurance.
Someone who doesn’t take up this much space. My chest tightens.
No. This is what she wants. I know this. She wants me smaller. Quieter. Unsure. And the worst part? For a few terrifying seconds— I almost let her have it.
I straighten slowly, drawing in a deep breath that burns my lungs a little. The night hasn’t changed. The stars are still there. The city is still glowing. I am still here.
I don’t know yet how to shut her voice out completely.
But I know this much: I won’t let it be the only one I hear.
Still… when I finally turn away from the railing, my steps back inside feel heavier than when I came out.
And I hate her for that.