CHAPTER 11
The Queen’s Saree
MEHER
I wake up to the sound of soft footsteps. For a moment, I have no idea where I am; the ceiling above me is too high, the chandelier too ornate, the walls too… golden. My brain needs a few seconds to catch up.
The palace, my room, even the bed I slept in feels like it could fit my entire flat inside twice over, yet it feels suffocating.
There’s no comfort here. Only grandeur.
A soft knock at the door is followed by the entry of two women in matching beige saris with thin gold borders. Their hair is pulled back in neat buns, not a strand out of place. They move in silent coordination, like they’ve done this a thousand times.
“Good morning, Maharani-sa,” one says, her voice polite but clipped.
I don’t respond right away. I’m still getting used to that title. It feels… foreign. Like they’re talking to someone else and I’ve accidentally answered.
Before I can fully sit up, they’re already setting out an outfit for me—a heavy maroon saree, thick with embroidery and gold thread work. The kind of fabric that could probably stand up on its own. The pallu is weighed down with tiny golden bells that jingle faintly when they move it.
I run my fingers over it. The cloth is beautiful, yes, but also the exact opposite of what I want to wear today.
“I’d like to wear my anarkali,” I say, glancing at them.
Both women freeze for the briefest moment. Then one of them tilts her head just slightly, her expression not unkind but unmistakably surprised, as if I’ve just suggested walking to breakfast in my pajamas.
“Maharani-sa are supposed to wear this,” she says, the emphasis deliberate, her tone smooth but edged. It’s not a suggestion—it’s almost an order wrapped in courtesy.
I meet her eyes, tempted to argue, to tell her I’ve dressed myself my whole life without help, but I bite it back. I don’t want to cause a scene, not until I confirm with the Maharaj himself.
I’m not asking for permission because what I wear is my choice. But I do need to inform him.
After I have freshened up and bathed, they help me into the saree.
The pleats feel like shackles around my legs, and the weight of the pallu drags against my shoulder as though reminding me I don’t belong here.
By the time they’re done adjusting the gold bangles and pinning my hair, I feel more like a mannequin on display than a person.
When I step out, the sight that greets me stops me mid-step.
He’s standing right outside my chamber, one hand in his pocket, phone pressed to his ear. His posture is controlled and rigid like always. His assistant, sharp suit, clipboard in hand, stands a few steps behind.
Then his eyes land on me. And just like that, his conversation stops mid-sentence. He pulls the phone from his ear and cuts the call without so much as a goodbye.
One long stride, and suddenly he’s close enough that I can catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, warm, with something sharper underneath.
“You look beautiful, Mahara—” he pauses, then corrects himself“—Meher.”
“Thank you,” I say politely, my voice calmer than I feel.
He doesn’t respond. His eyes move over my face like he’s memorising it, and the intensity makes me shift on my feet. I break the silence.
“Why are you here?” The words come out sharper than I meant, and I almost wince.
It’s not that I mind him being here. In fact… he’s still a stranger, but somehow less of a stranger than everyone else in this palace.
“I’m here to take you for breakfast,” he replies, unfazed by my tone.
I nod.
We walk side by side down the long marble corridor. Our hands graze once, just a light brush of skin, but the shiver it sends up my arm makes me pull mine back immediately.
He notices. I can tell because his hand disappears into his pocket a second later.
When I glance up, I find him already looking at me. In the morning sunlight pouring through the tall windows, his dark brown eyes almost glint with gold. It’s distracting enough that I don’t notice the edge of the carpet until my toe catches.
I stumble.
His arm is around my waist instantly, steadying me. “Careful.” He frowns, holding me just firmly enough to keep me upright.
I straighten, putting some distance between us. “I can’t walk in sarees freely.”
“Then why did you wear it?” he asks, brows drawn.
“The staff said I—”
“You are the queen,” he cuts in, his voice low but firm. “You wear what you want. You don’t need anyone’s permission.”
“I wasn’t going to ask for permission,” I say quietly. “I just wanted to inform you first.”
He nods once, then gestures toward a door on the left.
Inside, a long dining table stretches toward the far end of the room. Everyone is already seated. He extends a hand, and I take it without thinking as we walk toward the table.
Rajkumari Sitara gives me a bright smile, mouthing what I assume is, “You look beautiful.” I return a polite smile.
The Maharaj pulls out the chair at the head of the table, and I instinctively move to sit in the one beside it on his right. But he stops me with a quiet, “Sit here.”
I blink. “But—” Isn’t the king supposed to sit there?
His gaze meets mine, steady, giving no indication that this is a joke. Not wanting to create a scene, I sit.
Across from me, Rajmata’s fingers curl tightly around her spoon. Her eyes are sharp, and the displeasure in them is impossible to miss. I look away.
Kuwar Vihaan sends me an amused smile from further down the table. I manage a weak one back.
The food arrives: silver dishes, steaming rotis, and bowls of curries that smell rich and spicy. I focus on eating, tuning out the conversation between Maharaj and Kuwar Veeraj about the family’s hotel business.
I’m still trying to figure out why he gave me his seat.
When the meal ends and everyone begins to leave, I turn to him. “Why?” I don’t elaborate—he knows.
“So that everyone remembers to respect you.”
“Why do you care if someone respects me or not?”
“I told you yesterday, Meher.” He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us. “You are my wife, my queen. I will not tolerate any disrespect towards you.”
His cologne, sharp cedar with something warmer, wraps around me, pulling me closer without touching. I can’t seem to look away from his face.
His phone rings, cutting through the moment. He pulls it from his pocket, still not stepping back.
“I’ll send the royal designer to your chambers. Ask them for whatever you need.”
I nod, finally stepping away. Ojasvi, the maid assigned to me, follows behind as I leave the hall. I glance back once.
He’s still watching me.
My heart beats a little faster than it should.
I may not get love here… but at least, I think, I will get respect.