Two women who carry the weight of Shekhawat royalty so effortlessly that for a second, I wonder if I’ve walked into a frame from one of those glossy magazines.
Maharani stands near the carved console, arranging fresh lilies into a porcelain vase. There’s something commanding about the way she moves—precise, purposeful, like every gesture hasmeaning. Her presence fills the room without her even trying. She’s dressed simply in a pale green anarkali, but the elegance in the attire, the sharp set of her shoulders, the calm confidence in her posture—it screams authority.
Yet, somehow, she doesn’t intimidate me. And that surprises me.
Because authority usually does.
I discovered that about myself in college. There was this professor—Sir Omprakash. He was a man who believed fear was the foundation of respect. His voice was thunder, his temper unpredictable. Every time he called my name, my stomach knotted so hard I could barely breathe. And standing here now, looking at Maharani’s poise, I half expect that same anxious ripple to course through me.
But it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s because her eyes, when they finally meet mine, aren’t cold. They’re sharp, yes, and observant, but there’s a quiet warmth in them. Like a queen who knows her power but chooses kindness instead of cruelty.
And then there’s Rajkumari Sitara.
If Maharani is moonlight—serene and controlled—Rajkumari Sitara is sunlight on a summer morning. Bright, unfiltered, spilling everywhere without apology. She’s perched on the edge of a chaise, one leg tucked under her, scrolling through her phone. The moment she looks up, a grin splits her face wide open.
“Oh my God, finally!” she exclaims, bounding toward me with an energy that nearly startles me. Before I can react, her armsare around me in a quick, soft hug that smells like vanilla and something floral.
“We were starting to think Vihaan locked you in the tower.” I feel my cheeks heat up. I look away and bow in front of the queen.
Maharani’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “Please,” she exclaims. “You don’t need to do that, you’re family now.” She smiles.
“Rajkumari—” I begin, but Rajkumari Sitara frowns.
“Please drop the Rajkumari,” she smiles, and I nod.
Before I can respond, Maharani joins us, her smile gentler but just as sincere. “She’s right. You don’t need titles here, Poorvi. Not with us. We are family.”
Family. The word rolls around in my head, strange and heavy, like it’s trying to find a place to settle but can’t. People here use it so casually, it makes my heart ache a bit. I have never had this ease, this sense of belongingness that they have and somehow it upsets me but I don’t want to delve more into it.
I swallow, the knot in my stomach loosening just a little. “Okay,” I whisper.
Sitara beams, looping her arm through mine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “See? That wasn’t hard. Now, come sit. We have so much to talk about. Like, where were you hiding all this time? Vihaan barely told us anything except—”
“Sitara,” Meher’s tone slices through the air like silk over steel. Calm, but enough to make Sitara roll her eyes dramatically and zip her lips.
I can’t help it—I smile. A real one. They’re… different from what I expected. Softer. Warmer. Like maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought.
But then a thought sneaks in, sharp and unwelcome.Blending in isn’t easy for me. It never has been.
People think that because I studied psychology, I must have life figured out. That I know how to navigate every anxious spiral, every sharp edge of insecurity. But that’s the thing—knowing the theory doesn’t stop you from drowning in the practice.
Sometimes I need someone else to throw me a rope. To remind me I’m not alone. Unfortunately though I haven’t found that someone.
“Poorvi?” Sitara’s voice drags me back. She’s watching me with a curious tilt to her head. “You zoned out for a second. Everything okay?”
“Yes. Just… a lot on my mind,” I say quickly, forcing a small smile.
“Understandable.” Meher’s voice is calm, grounding. “You’ve had busy days.”
I nod, my fingers twisting the edge of my dupatta before I catch myself.
Sitara squeezes my arm suddenly, her grin mischievous. “Don’t worry. By the end of this week, you’ll forget what nerves even feel like. We’ll do temple visits, movie nights—I’ll even sneak you out for ice cream if Vihaan doesn’t play the overprotective husband card.”
The mention of his name sends an odd warmth crawling up my neck. I open my mouth to respond—but then my phone buzzes on the table.
No. Not the phone.
