The Choice
DHRUV
The room feels smaller now. Too small for all the silence sitting in it.
Devraj’s footsteps echo once before fading into the corridor.
Meher and Poorvi linger for a beat longer, their eyes darting between us like they don’t know if they should stay or leave.
Sitara still hasn’t moved from the edge of the bed—her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed somewhere near the carpet, like she’s afraid of what’ll happen if she looks up.
“I’ll give you both a moment,” Meher says softly. She presses Sitara’s shoulder before she leaves. The door shuts quietly behind them.
And then it’s just us.
The silence stretches. I can hear the faint whir of the air conditioner, the ticking of her bracelet as it trembles against her wrist. My chest feels tight, but I don’t move. I’ve faced angry ministers, military councils, journalists—but I’ve never felt this kind of nervous before.
Because this isn’t about duty. This is about her.
Sitara finally speaks, her voice soft but shaking. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I blink. “Do what?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely between us. “Play savior. Be the noble king who fixes the broken bride’s story. It’s very… cinematic, I’ll give you that. But it’s also unnecessary.”
There’s a hint of sarcasm there, but it’s brittle. Like she’s holding herself together with humor and hoping I won’t notice the cracks. Too late. I already see every single one.
“I’m not trying to fix you, Sitara. You’re not broken.”
She laughs—sharp, hollow. “I was left at the mandap. That’s not exactly the definition of ‘whole.’”
“You’re allowed to be hurt,” I reply. “But don’t let one man’s cowardice define you.”
Her eyes finally lift to meet mine, and god, they’re red.
There’s something about seeing her cry that feels wrong, like the world got the script wrong somewhere.
Sitara Singh Shekhawat isn’t supposed to cry—she’s supposed to talk too much, laugh too loud, and roll her eyes when someone calls her princess.
“I would be using you if we get married,” she blurts suddenly. “You realize that, right?”
I frown. “Using me?”
“Yes.” She pushes herself off the bed, pacing.
“I’m saying yes because I’m embarrassed.
Because I can’t handle people talking about me, or my family, or Bhai-sa’s reputation.
Because my fear of being judged is so big it’s basically a third person in this room.
That’s why I said yes. Not because you deserve to be dragged into my—”
“Sitara.”
She keeps pacing. “—ridiculous mess of a life. You’re a king. You have an image, a whole damn kingdom, and I’m—”
“Sitara.”
She stops mid-sentence, breathing hard. Her eyes are wild, shimmering with tears.
I step closer, slowly. “You done calling yourself names?”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” My voice softens, but I don’t look away. “You said you’re ridiculous, messy, and using me. None of that’s true. You’re scared, yes. Humiliated, maybe. But don’t confuse those things for your worth.”
She blinks, her lower lip trembling slightly. “You’re… weirdly calm for someone whose life I just hijacked.”
I smile a little. “I’ve been through worse.”
Her brow furrows. “Like what?”
“State dinners,” I say solemnly. “Have you ever sat through one of those? Three hours of pretending to care about irrigation policy while the soup gets cold.”
She snorts despite herself. The sound loosens something tight in my chest.
“See?” I murmur. “That’s better.”
She shakes her head, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth before fading again. “Dhruv, I mean it. What if you regret this later? What if one day you wake up and realize you married someone who’s stupidly talkative and clumsy and huge and—okay, that’s enough, don’t laugh—”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Not loud, but enough that her mouth falls open in disbelief.
“Did you just laugh at me?” she demands, her eyebrows raising in challenge.
I shrug “A little, because you’re standing there listing reasons you think I’ll regret this, but none of them sound like reasons to me.”
She blinks. “What?”
I shrug lightly. “You’re talkative, yes. But it’s usually about something that matters. You trip sometimes, but you also get back up like it never happened. And as for huge…” I pause, grin tilting. “You’re not. You just take up space the way a person should.”
Her cheeks flush. “That’s… oddly poetic for a man who once described economics as romantic.”
“Hey,” I protest lightly. “I stand by that. It’s all about balance.”
She groans, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t believe you’re joking right now.”
“I can’t believe you’re not.”
She looks at me through her fingers, half glaring, half smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“Possible enough that you said yes,” I counter gently.
The smile fades, replaced by something more fragile. “You don’t even know me that well.”
I tilt my head. “We’ve known each other for four years, Sitara.”
“Yes, but—”
“—and in those four years,” I interrupt, “I’ve seen you convince a palace chef to add Nutella to gajar ka halwa,” I squint my nose at her choice of culinary crime, “make a five-year-old stop crying by drawing a cartoon of her nose, and argue with a prince about why God wouldn’t want people to suffer in heels.
So, yeah. I think I know you better than any stranger would. ”
Her mouth opens, then shuts. “You remember all that?”
I watch her fiddle with the edge of her dupatta, her fingers trembling like leaves caught in a storm.
Four years. Four years of stolen glances, of laughing at her jokes like my heart wasn’t cracking open every time.
Four years of pretending not to notice the way her eyes light up when she talks about her sketches, the way her laughter feels like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Four years of telling myself it was enough just to be near her.
And now she’s here, looking at me like I’m her last hope.
I could tell her the truth—that I’ve been falling in love with her over these four years, and it all started from the very first time she spilled chai on my kurta and laughed like it was my fault. That every moment since has been a quiet ache, a longing for something I never let myself name.
But I won’t.
Because Sitara doesn’t need my confession. She needs my name. My protection. My silence.
“Of course,” I say simply. “I was there.”
For a moment, the room feels different. Lighter. The rain outside has softened into a quiet drizzle. The scent of roses drifts in through the window someone forgot to close.
“You really think this will work?” she asks softly.
“I don’t think,” I say. “I choose.”
She frowns. “Choose what?”
“You,” I answer. “Not because I have to, but because I want to.”
Her breath catches. The tears she’s been holding back finally spill, slow and silent.
“I’m scared,” she admits quietly. “What if I ruin your life?”
“You won’t,” I say. “And even if you tried, I’d still call it a good life.”
Her laugh is watery, a choked sound that somehow still makes me smile.
“You really have no idea what you’re signing up for.”
“Oh, I do,” I reply. “You’re dramatic, messy, occasionally infuriating—but you’re also brave, funny, and the only person who can make my serious meetings bearable just by walking in.”
Her lips tremble. “You’re just saying that.”
I shake my head. “No. I’ve spent years saying nothing. Let me say this.”
She doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she takes a small, shaky breath and whispers, “You’re going to regret this someday.”
“Maybe,” I say with a small smile. “But I’ll never regret choosing you.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years.
“Okay,” she says softly.
“Okay what?”
Her eyes glisten, but there’s a spark in them now. “Okay, Your Majesty. You win.”
I grin. “I usually do.”
She rolls her eyes, muttering something about arrogant kings, and I feel that strange warmth rise again—something between relief and disbelief.
Outside, thunder rumbles faintly again, softer this time. I move toward the door, calling one of the guards to inform Devraj. When I turn back, Sitara’s still standing there, fingers brushing the edge of her veil, her eyes distant but steady.
“You sure?” I ask quietly. “Because once I tell them—”
“I’m sure,” she cuts in, voice firmer now. “Let’s do it before I change my mind.”
“Right.” I nod, fighting the smile threatening to tug at my lips. “That’s the confidence I love to hear.” I wink.
She groans. “Don’t start flirting now, Dhruv.”
I grin wider. “I’m not flirting. I’m just appreciating.”
Her laugh—soft, reluctant—follows me as I step out to find Devraj.
And for the first time in hours, I feel like maybe, just maybe, something right is coming out of all this chaos. And I am SO glad I came here.