CHAPTER 52
The Portrait of Us
MEHER
I’m furious.
Not the cold, simmering kind of anger that fades with time, but the sharp kind that digs its claws in and refuses to let go. My hands are folded tight against my chest, my jaw set like stone as I pace the room. He knows exactly why I’m angry.
He promised.
He promised me—no last-minute cancellations, no disappearing acts in the middle of something important.
And yet, when I was waiting for him today, ready to go to that meeting together, he was nowhere.
Not a text. Not a call. Later, I hear from Sitara that he got “caught up in work” and that he asked her to inform me.
Work. As if my time isn’t worth the same respect he demands for his.
The door creaks open, and there he is—Devraj.
My Raja-sa, my husband, the man who can silence entire rooms with a glance and yet right now looks like a schoolboy about to face his teacher.
His usual confidence is gone; his shoulders sag slightly, his eyes softened by something that almost looks like guilt.
“I’m sorry, Rani-sa,” he says, voice low but clear. “This will never happen again.”
I don’t answer. I don’t even look at him.
Instead, I walk toward the dresser, pretending to adjust a perfume bottle that doesn’t need adjusting. Silent treatment—my ultimate weapon. And judging by the way his sigh fills the room, it’s working.
“Meher…” His voice breaks, like he’s peeling away his pride with each word. “Yell at me if you want. Throw something at me. Just—don’t stop talking to me. Please.”
I remain quiet, fixing my gaze on my reflection instead of him. My heartbeat is louder than the silence, but I’m not giving in. Not yet.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. Then, as if a thought strikes, he strides to the door and calls out, “Bring it in.”
I turn, eyebrows furrowing as a parade of staff starts walking into my room. My jaw nearly hits the floor.
First come the flowers—armfuls of them in every color imaginable. Then boxes—sleek, elegant boxes stacked high on polished trays. Silk spilling out in waves of color, jewelry cases glinting under the light. The entire room smells like a royal bazaar.
I stare at him, narrowing my eyes. “Are they apologizing for you?”
His brow creases. “What?”
“These.” I wave toward the mountains of luxury piling up in my room. “I don’t think you personally picked any of this. Someone else did. So, I’ll thank them later.” I huff, crossing my arms again.
His lips twitch—God, he’s actually trying not to laugh. “You think I asked someone else to choose these?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Meher…” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that velvet tone he uses when he’s about to ruin all my resolve. “Who do you think knows you better than I do?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Because that low, husky calm in his voice sends an annoying flutter through my stomach.
“Everyone out,” he says suddenly, turning to the staff. They scurry away in seconds, leaving behind the chaos of gifts and silence that feels louder now than before.
And then—he walks out.
He actually walks out.
My mouth falls open. How dare he? How can he just leave when I’m this angry? If he had said “sorry” one more time—just once more—I might have forgiven him. But now? Now, I won’t.
I flop onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, my arms spread out like I’ve fought a war and lost. The nerve of this man.
The door creaks again, and my head snaps up.
He’s back.
And in his hand—there’s a canvas. A large one, half-hidden behind his frame.
“What is that?” I demand, narrowing my eyes.
He doesn’t answer. Just walks in slowly, almost hesitantly, until he’s standing right in front of me. Then he turns the canvas around.
My breath catches.
It’s me.
Or rather, it’s his version of me. Painted in strokes that feel alive, colors that breathe emotion. I’m dancing—caught mid-spin, lehenga swirling like petals, my hair flying free, my smile… oh God. That smile. I look at it and almost don’t recognize myself.
“Is that… me?” My voice sounds small, uncertain.
He chuckles softly, eyes twinkling. “Who else would it be, Rani-sa?”
I rise slowly, my feet carrying me closer without my permission. My fingers tremble as they graze the edge of the canvas. She looks so beautiful—the woman in the painting. So free, so alive. Could that really be me?
“This…” My throat tightens. “This can’t be me.”
“It is you, Meher.” His voice is firm now, as if daring me to argue. “The way I see you.”
Something inside me splinters.
“I picked up the brush after years, Meher,” he continues, softer now, almost vulnerable. “My art… it may not be perfect—”
“It’s perfect,” I cut in, my voice thick.
His eyes lock on mine, and there’s something in them that makes my heart pound harder. He smiles then—slow, devastating.
“But would you,” he steps closer, “be my muse forever?”
A startled laugh escapes me. “This would be such a good line to use if you were proposing to someone.”
He hums thoughtfully. “You think so?”
Before I can respond, he bends down on one knee.
I freeze. “Raja-sa!”
He looks up at me, grin tugging at his lips but eyes dead serious. “What are you doing?” I whisper, half-shocked, half-terrified.
“Proposing to my wife, apparently.”
“I was kidding, Devraj!”
“So what?” His tone is playful, but there’s steel beneath it—the kind that means he’s not stopping now. “The thought came into your mind, and I’ll fulfill it.”
He slips off one of his rings—a heavy, intricate piece that suddenly feels like the most precious thing on earth.
“I’m so glad,” he says, voice low, “that my father was in danger that night. And I’m so glad he met your grandmother. Because if I hadn’t met you…” His throat works, like the words are too big for him to swallow. “…I wouldn’t have known what it feels like to live.”
Something in my chest caves in.
“Devraj,” I whisper, heat creeping up my neck. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” His smile softens, that lazy, disarming curve that still knocks the air from my lungs. “But if being ridiculous is what it takes to make sure you know what you mean to me, I’ll do it every single day.”
My heart is pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. He holds my gaze as he takes my hand, slow and deliberate, like I’m something fragile he can’t afford to break.
“When I was a boy,” he says, voice low, “I was told love is a weakness. That kings don’t have the luxury of loving anyone more than the throne.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Then you came along and made everything they taught me feel… meaningless.”
Something stings at the back of my eyes. Damn it. No. I am not crying. Not for this man who drives me insane and makes my heart feel like it’s sprinting uphill at the same time.
“I’m not perfect,” he says, almost laughing at himself but not quite making it.
“I mess up. Clearly.” He gestures faintly toward the pile of abandoned gifts, like that was some grand disaster—which it kind of was.
“But if you’ll let me, Meher… I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to deserve you. ”
Something hot and unstoppable spills down my cheeks. My anger? Gone. Swept away like it never existed. All that’s left is this man, this moment, and the feeling that maybe my heart isn’t big enough for everything he’s making me feel right now.
God help me—I laugh. It bursts out through the tears, shaky and broken, because how can I cry and laugh at the same time? But that’s what loving him feels like—too much of everything at once.
“Can I consider that as a yes?”.
I drop to my knees in front of him, my hands shaking as I cup his face. “You idiot,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Of course, it’s a yes.”
His exhale is rough, almost like a sob he’d never admit to. Before I know it, the ring is sliding onto my finger—a little loose because it’s his, not mine—but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the way his arms come around me the next second, pulling me into him like he’ll never let go.
And I let him. God, I melt into him, burying my face in his neck, breathing him in until the air in my lungs feels like him and only him.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, like it’s a prayer. “Always.”
And then his mouth is on mine, slow and deep and desperate, kissing me like the world could end tonight and he needs this to remember it by.
And maybe that’s what this moment will be for me—something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. The night my husband asked me to choose him. And I did.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I will always choose him.