CHAPTER 33
The Cost of Truth
DEVRAJ
I sit at the long teakwood table in my study, the one that has seen far more arguments than it has meals.
The late afternoon sun filters through the jaali windows, painting fractured patterns across the carpet, across Vihaan’s face as he sits across from me, and across Veeraj’s restless hands drumming against the armrest of his chair.
The air is heavy with the smell of ink, paper, and sandalwood oil from the diya Sitara must have left burning in the corner.
We’re supposed to be talking numbers. The aftermath of Meher’s speech at the inauguration has been on my mind, but I’ve been trying to judge through facts, not emotion.
Vihaan has the reports laid out neatly in front of him.
Veeraj has his phone open, scrolling, setting it down again, then picking it up like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“How is the public taking it?” I ask finally, cutting through the silence.
Vihaan clears his throat. “Better than expected. The speech is everywhere, clips and quotes circulating nonstop. The focus has shifted from where she comes from to what she said. People… respect her, bhai-sa. They may not all like her, but they’re listening now.”
“And the markets?” I look at Veeraj, who hasn’t said a word since we sat down.
“Stable,” he says shortly. “For now.”
My eyes linger on Vihaan, reading the quiet tension in the way his fingers curl against the armrest. He’s too still.
“What is it?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer at first. His jaw tightens, then loosens, then tightens again.
Finally, he sighs and runs both hands through his hair, something he never does unless he’s conflicted.
“As a son,” he begins slowly, “I cannot believe it.” His voice wavers, just once.
“But you are my King. And if I stand beside you, which is my duty, then I must remain truthful and loyal to you.”
I straighten in my chair, the pulse in my throat suddenly loud. Something inside me knows what’s coming, but I can’t stop it.
“You remember you asked for the source of the leak,” he continues, “when those articles about your marriage with Maharani came out?”
I nod once, silently.
“I found it.” His eyes close briefly as if bracing himself. “And it’s the same source who leaked the edited photograph to the media.”
The air leaves my lungs. For a long moment, all I can do is stare at him. The walls around me seem to shrink, the silence ringing so sharp I almost hear it. I exhale slowly, my fingers pressing into the polished edge of the table.
“Rajmata?” I whisper. My voice is low, reluctant, as if saying the name out loud might make it more real.
Vihaan’s eyes flicker, then he nods.
Something cracks inside me. I look away, closing my eyes, trying to steady myself, but the weight of it is unbearable. Of course I’ve thought it before—her words, her glares, the poison she has dripped into conversations. But suspicion is not truth, and truth… truth is a wound.
Veeraj’s voice breaks into the silence. “It must be a mistake,” he insists quickly, almost desperately. “She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—”
Vihaan’s head snaps toward him, his voice rising for the first time. “Do you think I would say something like this without checking it a million times?” His words are sharp, but his eyes—his eyes are full of hurt. “Do you think I want this to be true?”
The silence that follows is worse than shouting. Veeraj’s lips press together, his knuckles white against the armrest. He looks like a child again, caught between wanting to argue and knowing he cannot.
“What are you going to do?” Vihaan asks, his voice now heavy with resignation.
The question lingers in the air like smoke after a fire. What are you going to do?
I lean back in my chair, but it doesn’t help. The teakwood digs into my shoulders, my chest feels tight, and my temples throb as if the walls themselves are pressing in on me.
For a moment, I can’t even look at either of them.
My eyes fix instead on the papers strewn across the table—the market reports, the numbers, Meher’s speech printed word for word with circles and annotations.
All the signs of stability, of progress, of a kingdom moving forward.
And yet here I sit, being pulled backward, dragged into the one place I never want to return to—my mother’s shadow.
I rub a hand over my face and finally exhale. “I need time to think.”
It sounds weak even to my own ears, but it’s all I have.
Silence stretches between us again. Vihaan looks down, jaw locked so tightly I can see the muscle twitch in his cheek. Veeraj fidgets, restless, tapping his fingers against the armrest again. I catch the sound, sharp in the stillness, and my patience frays.
“Stop that,” I snap more harshly than intended.
He freezes, eyes flashing with something between guilt and defiance. “What else am I supposed to do? Sit here and—”
“Enough,” Vihaan cuts in. His voice is low, firm, carrying the weight of the truth he’s just confessed. “Don’t make this harder.”
I study him then—really study him. His eyes are bloodshot; his shoulders are tense, and his whole being is exhausted in a way I rarely see.
Vihaan is not careless. He doesn’t speak unless he’s certain.
And for him to say this, about the woman who raised him, it means he’s torn himself apart before stepping into this room.
A sharp pang runs through me. He deserves more comfort than I can give right now, but I have no words left. My throat feels like it’s been scraped raw.
“Rajmata…” I say again, barely audible, almost to myself. The word tastes bitter.
I press my palm flat against the table, grounding myself.
My mother. The woman who taught me how to sit straight, how to speak with authority, how to hold a room with silence alone.
The same woman who ripped brushes from my twelve-year-old hands because kings did not waste time smearing colors across canvas.
The same woman who, when the crown was placed on my head, looked at me not with pride, but with expectation.
And now this.
Why is it so difficult for her to accept Meher?
My mind plays back every look she’s given my wife, every cold word wrapped in politeness, every backhanded compliment, every calculated absence when Meher stood before the family.
Perhaps I should have seen it coming. But part of me—the child part—still wanted to believe that even if she couldn’t love me the way a mother should, she wouldn’t destroy what little peace I tried to create.
But maybe that was foolish.
“Bhai-sa,” Veeraj says finally, softer now, cautious. “Maybe she didn’t mean for it to… escalate. Maybe it was only—”
Vihaan’s glare cuts him down before he can finish. “Don’t. Don’t make excuses for her. Not this time.”
I see the hurt in Veeraj’s eyes. He’s younger than us.
He clings to her still, even after all her sharp edges.
Maybe because he does have some of her traits; he’s straightforward, but not unkind and maybe…
Maybe, for him, she is still Ma. For me…
she hasn’t been that in a very long time.
I can’t even imagine what Sitara would feel like when she gets to know about all this.
Unlike Veeraj and Vihaan, Sitara and I have always been a disappointment to Rajmata.
Me, because she believes I am not strong enough to be king, and Sitara…
well, because she isn’t the daughter our mother wanted her to be.
Sitara tries, I know she does, but this is difficult for her.
I have seen her struggle in the disappointment of our mother, all of us have, but there isn’t much we can do.
All we can offer her is our support. We can’t change how Rajmata thinks; she’s too stubborn, and too set in her ways. .
The silence grows unbearable.
Finally, I push back from the table. The chair scrapes against the carpet, a harsh sound that makes both of them flinch slightly. I stand, my hands curling into fists before I force them open. My voice, when it comes, is steady, though inside I am anything but.
“Let’s keep this under wraps for now,” I say. “Whatever I decide, we announce it only within the family. This remains amongst us.”
“Bhai—” Veeraj begins.
“No.” My tone is sharper than I intend, but I can’t soften it. “We do not involve the public. Not yet.”
Not yet.
Because in truth, I want to. God, I want to stand before the world and say it plainly: No one, not even my own blood, not even the woman who bore me, has the right to disrespect my wife and walk away unscathed.
I want to make an example of her, to carve it into stone that Meher is untouchable, that she belongs here not because I say so, but because she is.
But I can’t. Not without shattering the fragile threads that still bind this family together. I may be a king, but I am also the head of this household. If I break it apart, who will be left standing beside me when the dust settles?
And more than that—how can I act alone, when every arrow has been aimed at Meher from the beginning? It is her dignity, her name, that has been stained. If justice is to be served, then she must have a voice in it.
I breathe out slowly, my chest aching. I will leave the decision to her. I cannot be the one to decide.
My eyes fall on Vihaan again. He looks older than his years, the burden of truth carving lines into his face. He doesn’t speak, but his gaze meets mine with silent understanding. He has given me loyalty at the cost of his own heart, and I will not forget it.
Veeraj, though, looks away. His fingers tighten around his phone, his jaw set stubbornly. He is not ready to accept it, not yet. And perhaps I cannot ask him to.
I nod once, more to myself than to them. “We are done here.”
Neither of them moves immediately. But eventually Vihaan gathers the papers, stacking them neatly, methodically, as though order might soothe the chaos in his chest. Veeraj shoves his phone into his pocket, his shoulders rigid as he rises.
They leave quietly, the heavy door closing behind them.
And I am left alone in the study, surrounded by fractured sunlight and the faint scent of sandalwood, drowning in a silence that feels heavier than any crown I have ever worn.