CHAPTER 50
Permission Granted
MEHER
The sun is dipping low beyond the carved arches of my chamber when Sitara sits across from me, her lehenga pooling like a blossom around her.
Evening light glints off the mirrorwork in her blouse, scattering fragments of gold across the floor.
She looks breathtaking, poised, so utterly royal—yet her smile is soft, sisterly.
There’s something about Sitara that makes the palace feel a little less intimidating.
I wrap the dupatta around my arm and lean against the cushioned backrest, pretending to be calm even as my heart thrums like the tabla in the courtyard below. I’m home again. If I can even call this my home. The word tastes strange, heavy with all that’s happened.
“You know,” Sitara begins, her voice laced with that quiet confidence only she seems to possess, “Bhai-sa had sent Maa-sa to the royal villa… that day.”
My head jerks up. “What?” The word escapes before I can school my tone.
Sitara tilts her head, a knowing look in her eyes. “He cut her off, Bhabhi-sa. Completely.” She pauses, letting the weight of it sink in. “Because of you.”
For a moment, the world narrows to that single sentence. Because of me. She doesn’t sound accusing, but I still feel sad for her.
I should feel guilty. Maybe I do, somewhere deep down.
But what rises stronger—unexpected, wild—is pride.
A flicker of happiness that feels almost forbidden.
I know what she put him through. I’ve seen the cracks in his armor, the way every word from her was another arrow to the heart.
And he—he finally chose himself. Chose… me?
“I…” My lips part, but words fail.
Sitara’s smile deepens, and there’s mischief there now, a secret she isn’t telling. Before I can ask, the heavy wooden door creaks open behind me. My pulse stumbles, and I know—before I even turn—who it is.
Devraj.
The air shifts the way it always does when he walks in, like the room itself takes a breath.
He moves with the kind of quiet authority that makes even silence bow.
Black kurta, the fabric clinging to the strength of his shoulders, his jaw dusted with stubble that wasn’t there this morning.
His eyes find mine instantly, as if nothing else exists.
Sitara rises and bows her head slightly. “Bhai-sa,” Then, with a teasing curve to her lips that makes heat creep up my neck, she dips toward me. “Rani-sa.”
I roll my eyes at her, but she’s already gliding out of the room, lehenga whispering against the marble like a secret, leaving behind laughter that hangs in the air.
I don’t get time to recover because Devraj is standing in front of me now, close enough for his presence to swallow the space between us. He leans down, and before I can think, his lips brush my forehead—soft, reverent. My breath catches.
“You look beautiful, Meher,” he murmurs, voice low enough to tremble against my skin.
“I know,” I manage, tilting my chin up with mock pride.
His laugh is a quiet rumble, the kind that curls in my stomach. “As you should,” he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek this time. My skin burns where his lips linger.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but then he turns slightly toward the door and calls out, “Come in.”
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t answer me. Just smiles, the kind of smile that makes me suspicious and a little breathless. And then—
The door swings wide, and people begin filing in. Staff members, one after another, carrying trunks and ornate boxes, arms laden with garments and books and—wait. That’s his sword stand.
“What is all this?” I demand, standing so fast my dupatta nearly slips.
“My stuff, Rani-sa,” Devraj says easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m shifting here.”
I gasp. “You’re what?”
He bends close, so close his breath warms the shell of my ear. “I can’t bear the thought of sleeping without you anymore,” he whispers, and the words are molten, curling into every corner of me. “What if you run away?”
I swat at his chest, my fingers meeting hard muscle. “You know I won’t do that,” I pout, though my heart is thudding so hard it might give me away.
He chuckles, deep and warm. “Still. I’d like to stay here.”
A helpless smile tugs at my lips. “Then why are you asking me? You don’t need anyone’s permission.”
His expression softens in a way that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. “You’re right,” he says slowly, almost like a vow. “But I will always need your permission.”
The words knock the air from my lungs. I laugh, a little unsteady, trying to hide what that does to me. “You could’ve just asked me to move. I have less stuff.”
His lips twitch. “And put my queen through so much inconvenience? Never.”
I squint at him playfully, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Are you always this cheesy?”
He chuckles, leaning in until his eyes are all I can see, all I can breathe. “I am whatever you want me to be, Rani-sa.”
And just like that, I forget how to breathe. His gaze is molten honey, and in that moment, I think I finally understand why palaces are built with walls so high—because if anyone saw the way he’s looking at me, the way I’m looking back, they’d call it dangerous.
And maybe it is.