CHAPTER 24
Behind Closed Doors
DEVRAJ
The day has wrung me dry.
Meetings, signatures, and endless words that feel like they’re said just to fill air.
Court petitions in the morning, land disputes in the afternoon, a dinner meeting with ministers who circle every topic like vultures waiting for the weakest carcass to drop.
By the time the palace corridors finally quiet, my body aches for my bed. Yet it is the last place I want to go.
I’ve noticed it now—it has become a ritual. I can’t seem to end a day without walking to her door, without seeing her once. Just once. The strangest part is, I don’t even question why anymore. The need is so deeply woven into me already, it feels as normal as breathing.
So here I am, feet carrying me almost against my will, down the lantern-lit hallway. The marble is cool beneath me, the silence heavy except for the occasional sound of my footsteps echoing. Her door looms before me, painted with carved lotus patterns, closed yet somehow inviting.
I raise my hand and knock, once.
The door creaks open after a few seconds, and there she is.
My heart stutters.
Her hair is tied into a messy bun, wisps falling out to frame her face.
She’s wearing pajamas—duckling pajamas, of all things.
Pale yellow with ridiculous little cartoon ducks all over them.
And in that moment, she looks more real, more…
herself than I’ve ever seen her. No crown, no jewels, no stiff silks weighing her down. Just Meher.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. “Raja-sa!” she gasps, her hand flying to her chest. Her pitch is high, almost accusing, as though I’ve barged in on a scandal. “I wasn’t expecting you!”
I chuckle, the sound slipping out of me before I can stop it. “You look beautiful,” I tease, my lips twitching.
Her cheeks flush instantly, her eyes snapping wide. “Raja-sa!” She’s half mortified, half flustered, like a child caught red-handed sneaking sweets. And then, before I can say anything else, she slams the door in my face.
For a full heartbeat, I stand frozen. The King of this land, Devraj Singh Shekawat, left outside his queen’s chambers with the door shut in his face.
My mouth drops open, disbelief striking me first, then—slowly—I feel laughter bubbling up in my chest. A disbelieving chuckle shakes out of me. Never in my entire life had I thought someone would dare to close a door on me. And yet, here I am.
“Am I supposed to leave?” I ask loudly, still smiling like an idiot at her door, hands in my pockets.
Inside, there’s a clatter, then her voice, sharp but nervous, “No!”
I hear her shuffle frantically, the noise of fabric, maybe things falling. “Just—give me two minutes!”
Two minutes stretches into almost ten. I lean against the stone pillar, amused, waiting. Finally, the door opens again.
And there she is. Different. Changed.
Gone are the duckling pajamas. She’s dressed now in a soft green anarkali, her hair tied back in a simple ponytail. Still casual compared to court standards, but deliberate, careful. Too careful.
My brows furrow. “Why did you change?”
Her fingers toy with the end of her dupatta, fumbling. “Umm…”
“You looked—” The words die because my hand betrays me. It moves on its own, cupping her left cheek gently. The warmth of her skin tingles under my palm. She stiffens instantly, eyes darting up to mine, lips parting as though she forgot how to breathe.
I take a step inside, and she instinctively takes one back. I nudge the door shut behind me with my free hand, the soft click sealing us into this space that suddenly feels too small, too charged.
Step by step, she moves back, my presence pushing her, though I’m barely touching her. Her back finally meets the wall, and I stop only inches away.
“Why did you change, Meher?” My voice is quiet, but I hear the demand in it.
“Because…” Her throat bobs, words faltering.
“Because I’m the king?”
She shakes her head quickly, strands of hair brushing against her cheeks.
“Then why?”
Her voice drops to a whisper, so faint I almost miss it. “Because I didn’t want you to see me that way.”
“Why?” I ask again, needing the truth, needing to peel back whatever shield she’s hiding behind.
Her eyes flicker away. “Because I looked messy.”
“And?”
Her chest rises, her small hand presses against mine—not to push away this time, but to hold me at a distance. “Raja-sa…” she breathes, almost pained, as though my presence suffocates her. She pushes lightly against my chest, then turns, giving me her back.
And that back… her anarkali dips low, the fabric brushing over her bare skin, the soft curve of her shoulder blades exposed. My breath hitches, but it’s not lust that grips me—it’s the raw fragility of her retreat.
I step closer, careful and slow. My hand lifts, hovers, then finally rests against her shoulder. The heat of her skin sears under my palm. She shivers visibly.
My face dips near her hair, the faint smell of jasmine and something uniquely her surrounding me. “Whether you think you look messy or not,” I say quietly, “you seem to look beautiful in my eyes.”
She turns slowly, her eyes wide, glassy, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen them. “Why?” she whispers, voice trembling.
“Because you are my wife.”
Her lips part, a breath catching. “Am I?” she asks slowly, painfully. “We don’t have a husband-wife relationship.”
My chest clenches at the way she says it—not accusing, not bitter, just a truth that weighs heavy between us.
“And what does that look like?” I ask, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her cheek, my fingers grazing the soft skin.
Her lashes flutter closed, her breath uneven. “I…I don’t know you, Raja-sa.” Her eyes open, meeting mine with startling honesty. “I want to know you.”
A humorless smile pulls at my lips. “Everyone knows me, Meher.”
She steps closer, and my heart stumbles. Our chests almost brush, the heat of her body bleeding into mine. Her voice is low, intimate, carrying a weight that punches through every armor I’ve built.
“Not the king, Raja-sa,” she says. “My husband.”
Her gaze locks on mine, unwavering, searching. Then she rises onto her toes, her lips grazing the shell of my ear as she whispers, “I want to know my husband, Raja-sa.”
Her words unravel me. My body is taut, every muscle burning with the closeness of her.
And inside me, a storm brews.
Because she doesn’t know what she’s asking for.
No one knows me. Not truly. Everyone sees the crown, the power, the title. No one sees the man beneath, the boy who once counted stars with his father, who laughed without weight, who painted for escape, who trusted without fear. No one has ever asked for that man.
Except her.
This girl—this woman I married a few months ago, under circumstances neither of us could control—stands here, looking up at me with those stubborn, earnest eyes. Asking me to show her the part of myself I’ve buried away.
And the terrifying part? I might.
Not because I trust her fully. I don’t know if I do. Maybe I never will. But because even if I didn’t, I would still share it with her. Because she affects me in ways no one else ever has.
I swallow hard, pressing down the raw ache in my chest. My arms wrap around her slowly, pulling her into me. For a second, she goes still. Then, after a beat that feels endless, she melts into my embrace.
Her arms circle my waist, her cheek resting lightly against me. My chin hovers above her hair, and I breathe her in, my entire body exhaling a tension I didn’t know I carried.
“Then go on a date with me, Meher,” I whisper into her hair.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t pull back. Just stand there, breathing with me.
“Tomorrow?” Her voice is so quiet it almost doesn’t reach me.
“Tomorrow,” I promise.
And I mean it.
Because if anyone is going to see the man behind the king, it will be her.