Chapter 44 What if I am him?
What if I am him?
DHRUV
The room feels too small the moment Lakshman steps inside—like the walls have leaned in, like the air itself has thickened with everything I’ve been holding back.
I don’t think. I don’t weigh consequences or remember titles or centuries of etiquette drilled into my spine. I don’t remember that this palace survives on restraint, on smiles sharpened into weapons and anger buried under silk.
My body moves before my mind can stop it.
My hand snaps out, fist curling into the collar of his jacket, the expensive fabric wrinkling uselessly under my grip as I slam him back against the wall. The sound is dull, final. Stone meets flesh. Power meets panic.
My heartbeat thunders so loud it drowns out everything else—logic, reason, even the distant chatter from the event outside. All I can hear is blood rushing in my ears and the echo of her silence, the way her fingers trembled in mine earlier.
“I told you,” I say, my voice low, steady in the way it only gets when I’m past anger and into something far more dangerous. My face is inches from his now. Close enough to see the fear flicker in his pupils. “I told you not to invite the Chauhans.”
Lakshman inhales sharply, breath catching like he’s been punched. His hands come up instinctively, fingers scrabbling at my wrist, useless against the fury locked into my grip. “Raja-sa—please—I—”
I tighten my fist instead.
“If your loyalty to the Chauhans mattered so much,” I cut in, each word pressed flat and sharp, “you shouldn’t have invited me. I was very clear.”
I lean in closer, lowering my voice until it’s meant only for him. Until it carries the promise I’m barely holding back.
“He owes my wife an apology,” I say. “And unless he gives it, I am not responsible for what happens to your event next.”
The color drains from Lakshman’s face. Not all at once—slowly, like blood receding from a wound. Fear flashes through his eyes, raw and unguarded, before he tries to school his expression back into something resembling composure.
This is not how kings speak to one another. This is not diplomacy. Not alliances or negotiations or quiet threats exchanged behind closed doors with tea growing cold between us. This is fury. This is a husband who watched the woman he loves doubt her own worth because of one man’s cowardice.
And right now, I don’t care about decorum. I care about justice. I care only about her.
“Raja-sa, please—” Lakshman tries again, his voice cracking this time, stripped of the confidence he walked in with.
A hand lands on my shoulder. The contact cuts through the noise in my head, through the heat rushing in my veins. I know who it is before I turn. I always do.
I twist around sharply.
Devraj stands there, close enough that I can feel his presence without looking.
His jaw is clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, his mouth set in a straight line that means restraint—not mercy.
His eyes are dark, unreadable, the kind of still that comes only when anger has been locked away behind discipline.
“Let him go,” he says.
His voice is calm. Too calm. Every nerve in my body rebels.
My grip tightens instinctively before I force myself to loosen it.
Anger coils inside me, hot and restless, pressing against my ribs, begging to be let loose.
I want to shake Lakshman until the fear he planted spreads back into him tenfold.
But this—this isn’t about Devraj. It never was. This isn't about Lakshman, either. I am directing my anger at the wrong source. I release my hold slowly, my fingers uncurling one by one like it physically pains me to let go.
Lakshman stumbles back immediately, sucking in air as if he’s been underwater too long.
He coughs, one hand flying to his throat while the other fumbles with his collar, trying to smooth the wrinkled fabric even though his hands won’t stop shaking.
He takes a step back. Then another. Distance, finally.
The room exhales.
A sound slices through it. Soft. Amused. A chuckle.
It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t fit the tension still hanging thick in the air. It’s wrong in the way only cruelty disguised as humor can be.
My stomach drops before my mind catches up. I know that sound.
I don’t move at first. I don’t want to look. Because once I do, there’s no going back—no pretending this is just another political mess, another obligation I can reason my way through.
But the sound comes again, louder now, careless.
I turn.
And there he is. Ayush Chauhan.
He is leaning against the doorframe like he has every right to be there.
One shoulder braced against the wood, hands tucked lazily into his pockets, chin tipped up in faint amusement.
He looks… comfortable. As if the tension in the room is a performance staged for his benefit, as if the raised voices and clenched fists are nothing more than background noise to entertain him.
The ease of him makes my stomach turn.
“You hold grudges, Raja-sa,” he says lightly, the words careless, almost playful. His gaze flicks over me with deliberate slowness, assessing, provoking. “You want an apology? That’s simple. I’ll give her one.”
He straightens, pushing off the doorframe, shoes scraping softly against the floor as he starts walking toward us. Each step is unhurried, confident in a way that feels deeply offensive given what he’s standing in the middle of.
“After all,” he adds, lips curving into something that might pass for a smile if it weren’t so cruel, “I did push her into marry you.”
Something inside me snaps.
My vision blurs, red bleeding into the edges of everything I see. I shift forward instinctively, muscles coiling—
But I don’t move first.
Devraj does.
The punch lands with a sharp, brutal crack that echoes in the room.
Ayush’s head jerks to the side, the sound of impact loud enough to make my chest tighten.
He stumbles back a step, then another, shock written plainly across his face as he struggles to regain his balance.
One hand comes up to his cheek, fingers trembling slightly as if his body hasn’t yet caught up with what just happened.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
Like he genuinely can’t believe someone dared to touch him.
Devraj doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. His voice, when he speaks, is low and steady, carrying more threat than any raised tone ever could.
“You have no right,” he says calmly, eyes locked on Ayush with terrifying focus, “to even think about her.”
For a brief second, Ayush looks rattled.
Then his lips twist.
The shock fades, replaced by something uglier—something smug. The corner of his mouth lifts slowly, deliberately, as that familiar smirk crawls back onto his face, like a challenge he’s daring us to answer.
“If you think I’d want to think about her,” he scoffs, the corner of his mouth lifting in something ugly and careless, “you’re absolutely wrong, Maharaj. Your sister isn’t really much to think about.”
The room shifts.
It’s not loud. There’s no dramatic sound, no sudden chaos. It’s quieter than that—like the air itself tightens, thickens, presses in on us. My chest locks up, breath stalling halfway, and for a fraction of a second I don’t know whether I should move, speak, or tear him apart with my bare hands.
Devraj moves before I can.
His fist connects with Ayush’s face with a force that echoes off the walls. There’s a dull, sickening sound as Ayush stumbles back again, nearly losing his footing, one hand flying up to his cheek. He laughs as he reels, a broken, mocking sound, like pain is nothing more than an inconvenience.
“What?” he says, wiping at his mouth, eyes bright with something twisted. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Yes.”
The word cuts through the room, sharp and steady.
I turn. Sitara stands near the doorway.
She’s standing tall, spine straight, chin lifted, her hands relaxed at her sides even though I know they’re shaking. Her eyes are fixed on him, dark and unwavering, burning with a fury that has nothing to do with fear. There’s no fragility in her expression. No doubt.
She looks finished.
“You are a loser,” she says, her voice calm in a way that makes it land harder. Each word is measured, deliberate, chosen. “And thank God for that.”
Ayush goes still. His smirk falters, confidence cracking just enough to show what’s underneath. For the first time since he walked into this room, he looks unsure.
Sitara doesn’t blink.
She holds his gaze without flinching, without shrinking, and in that moment, I realize something shifts—not just in the room, but in him. Whatever power he thought he had over her dissolves right there, right then.
“I am so grateful,” she says, stepping forward, her voice steady in a way that makes my chest ache, “that you tucked your tail between your legs and ran. Because if you hadn’t, you would have hurt me.”
Her fingers curl at her sides, not trembling, not hesitant. Strong. “And I have three brothers.”
Her eyes flick—just for a heartbeat—to Devraj. Then they come to me. And in that glance, there is trust. Quiet. Absolute. It lands heavier than any blow ever could.
“And I don’t like violence,” she continues, softer now, almost conversational, “but I wouldn’t mind it against you.” Her mouth twists. Not cruel, just tired. “Because you’re not really a man. You’re just a coward who doesn’t know how to respect a woman.”
The color drains from Ayush’s face so fast it’s almost frightening. For a second, he looks smaller. Cornered. And then something ugly flashes in his eyes.
He moves.
It’s sudden—too sudden. A sharp step forward, his shoulder dipping as his hand comes up, anger spilling out of him in one reckless motion.
I don’t think.
My body reacts before my mind catches up.
My hand snaps around his wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to feel bone beneath skin. The impact jolts up my arm. He snarls, twists, tries to rip free, his breath hot and ragged as he struggles.
I don’t let go.
Not an inch.