CHAPTER 39
Defending her
DEVRAJ
The air in the chamber feels heavy before I even step inside.
A polished mahogany table stretches the length of the room, glossy under the white ceiling lights.
Men in tailored suits sit on either side, expressions hard, calculating, restless.
The moment I enter, every head turns. The sound of my shoes against the marble floor echoes louder than it should.
Vihaan walks in behind me, a silent presence, placing a file in front of me before moving back to stand near the wall.
I don’t sit immediately. I let them watch me, measure me, feel my silence weigh on their impatience.
“Maharaj,” one of the ministers begins, the word clipped, reverent on the surface but edged with frustration. “We must speak plainly. This… situation cannot go on.”
I lower myself into the chair at the head of the table. My fingers clasp together, elbows resting lightly on the armrests. I don’t respond, just let him continue.
“It’s one thing for the press to fawn over Maharani,” he says, voice dripping with irritation, “but the scale of it—it’s become disruptive. Every headline, every news cycle, every image broadcast—her presence overshadows governance. The kingdom cannot afford this imbalance.”
Another minister, older, leaning forward with a pen tapping restlessly against his notepad, cuts in.
“We warned you before, Maharaj. A commoner queen would stir attention, but this—this is destabilizing. The opposition parties thrive on it. They call you weak, distracted. They call her undeserving. They call the crown compromised.”
My jaw tightens, but I keep my face still, unreadable.
“Questions about her background never cease,” another adds. “They dredge up her family, her education, her origin. Every press conference turns into speculation about her, not state affairs. Do you realize what this does to the image of the crown?”
I let their words circle like vultures. They think repetition will wear me down. They forget who I am.
Finally, the eldest among them, a man whose influence stretches into every party’s pocket, leans back, folds his hands across his chest, and says the words the room has been tiptoeing toward. “Divorce her. Preserve the crown.”
The table stills. Even the tapping of the pen halts. The words hang there, poisonous, filling the silence with their arrogance.
I stare at him, unblinking, until the weight of my gaze makes him shift. My voice, when it comes, is calm, measured, but the steel underneath is unmistakable. “I’ll dissolve the crown before I dissolve my marriage.”
The scrape of chairs, the sharp inhale of surprise, the ripple of shock—every reaction registers in my mind as I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table.
“You speak of preservation as though the crown is a museum piece. A relic. Something to polish and put behind glass while men like you milk it for your funding, for your political leverage.” My eyes move deliberately across each of their faces, steady and unwavering.
“You forget what makes people watch, what makes them care. It is not your speeches, not your policies, not your endless tug-of-war in parliament. It is her. Her presence. Her heart. Her authenticity.”
Commotion erupts, but I raise a hand and silence returns.
“You think her popularity weakens me? No. It strengthens us. What weakens us is your fear of being forgotten. Do not mistake her light for your shadow.”
The minister who spoke first bristles, face reddening. “You cannot dismiss us so easily. This is not about fear, Your Majesty. It’s about order. Power. Respect. The monarchy stands on lineage, on tradition—”
“Wrong.” My interruption slices through his words like a blade. My voice rises, steady, resolute. “A kingdom built on bloodlines is weak. A kingdom built on love and honor—that’s power.”
The silence that follows is absolute. They are not used to being told they are wrong. They are not used to being reminded that the crown they try to manipulate is not theirs to control.
I rise slowly from my chair, pushing it back with deliberate finality.
My hands flatten against the table, knuckles pressing into the polished wood as I lean forward.
“Do not think I will stand by while you attempt to strip dignity from my wife to preserve your illusions of relevance. Do not think I will barter her worth to protect your insecurities. The people see through you. They always have. What they see in her is real. And that terrifies you.”
Their eyes dart to one another, but no one speaks. Cowards. Every single one.
I straighten, smoothing my jacket, and turn to Vihaan. “Prepare the statement.”
He nods once, jaw set, already moving toward the door.
I step out of the chamber, leaving the suffocating weight of their hypocrisy behind. But I know this isn’t over. Their resentment will fester. Their whispers will grow louder. Still, I would rather face a thousand daggers in the dark than allow their venom to reach her.
Hours later, the studio lights blaze hot against my skin.
The cameras are poised, red dots blinking, waiting to broadcast my words across the nation.
A hush falls over the room as the countdown begins in my ear.
Vihaan stands to the side, arms crossed, giving me a sharp nod.
The teleprompter rolls, but I don’t glance at it.
I speak from my chest, from the weight pressing against my ribs.
“My people,” I begin, voice steady, “there has been much said these past weeks. Much speculation. Much distraction. Today, I will not speak of policy. I will not speak of opposition or alliances. Today, I will speaktruth.”
The room seems to hold its breath.
“You have been told the monarchy survives on lineage, on bloodlines. That power is inherited, not earned. That to step outside tradition is to weaken the throne. I tell you now—this is a lie.” The words roll out, measured, deliberate, carrying the weight of conviction.
“My wife, your queen, is exactly who you believe her to be,” I state.
“She’s kind, she thinks of you, and she inspires me to think of you.
She’s someone, and maybe the only one, in power who will use it for you and not against you,” I say, because it’s true.
Meher genuinely cares, and it’s important people know it and remember it before these cowards, these so-called politicians, fill the minds of people with garbage about her. She will not go through that again.
“To the politicians, You question her worth? Then question mine, for it is I who chose her. You call her undeserving? Then you call me blind. You say she overshadows governance? Then perhaps you should ask yourselves why it is easier for the people to believe in her than in you.”
The cameras stay fixed, recording every flicker of my expression. My hand rests against the podium, steady, controlled. Inside, my blood thrums with fire.
“I will not entertain further insults to the Queen. You will not use her as a shield for your failures. And you will not dictate the terms of my marriage to protect your positions. If the monarchy cannot withstand authenticity, then let it fall. But do not mistake—” my voice sharpens, final “—do not mistake my silence for compliance.”
The red lights blink off. The broadcast ends. For a moment, the room is utterly still. Then Vihaan exhales sharply, pride flickering in his eyes before he masks it behind professionalism.
The silence of the studio lingers long after the cameras cut. I step back from the podium, rolling my shoulders once, as though shaking off the weight of a thousand watching eyes. My pulse still pounds, not from fear, but from the sheer release of saying it—saying what needed to be said.
Vihaan approaches, his stride brisk, his expression carefully neutral until he’s close enough that no one else can hear. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing in quiet reproach.
“That wasn’t diplomacy,” he says, his tone dry.
A corner of my mouth lifts. “No,” I admit, reaching for the glass of water on the stand and taking a slow sip. “It wasn’t. It was the truth.”
For a beat, we stand there in the fading heat of the studio lights, the hum of equipment being shut down filling the background. Then, unexpectedly, Vihaan’s lips curve. Not the tight, professional smirk he wears for the world, but a real smile.
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
He shakes his head slightly, that rare smile still playing on his face. “It’s good to see you in love, brother.”
The words land heavier than I expect. He says it so simply, like it’s an observation, not an accusation, not even a question. Just a fact.
And it hits me—because he’s right.
The truth of it surges through me like a tide, steady and undeniable.
This wasn’t about defiance for the sake of ego.
It wasn’t about power, or proving myself to men who will never understand.
It was about her. About protecting Meher, about refusing to let anyone diminish her worth. Haven’t I always felt like that though?
I am in love with her. Fiercely, irreversibly, probably foolishly—but there it is. I have always been.
The realization doesn’t scare me. If anything, it steadies me more than anything else has in years.
I exhale slowly, meeting Vihaan’s gaze, the corner of my mouth tugging into something closer to a real smile. “Yes,” I say quietly. “I suppose I am.”