The paper trembles faintly between my fingers as my eyes run over the words for the fourth time. They blur, not because of my eyesight, but because something hot and stinging presses behind my eyes.
Poorvi,
You are now Kunwarani of Udaipur, and as such, your duty to your family continues. We are preparing a new venture and it would be wise for you to convince your husband to support us financially. After all, family obligations do not end with marriage. We will be expecting you to do what is right. Do not forget where you come from.
There’s no “How are you?” No “Are you happy?” Not even a single line of affection. Just expectation. Just demand. Just… reminder that I was never anything more to them than a means to an end.
My hand folds the letter carefully, too carefully for how my insides are twisting, and I place it flat against the wooden surface of the table before sliding it into the drawer. The soundof the wood shutting is final, but it doesn’t shut out the voice of my stepmother that lingers in my head.
Not once. Not once since the day I was sent away as a bride has anyone from that house picked up a phone to call me. Not once did they send a message to ask if I was adjusting, if I was eating well, if I was… loved.
No. They only reach out now because they want something. Because suddenly, I am not Poorvi, the stepdaughter too inconvenient to love, but Kunwarani Poorvi, the wife of Kunwar Vihaan Singh of Udaipur.
I let out a shaky breath, staring at my hands pressed tightly together on my lap.
This is all I ever was to them. A pawn. A tool. A girl to marry off. And now, a bridge to Vihaan’s wealth.
My chest feels tight, too tight, and for a moment I almost laugh at the bitter irony of it. All my life I had dreamt—just once—for someone to choose me. Not for what I could bring, not for how useful I could be, but for who I am. And now, here I am, married into a palace, yet still the same girl. Still the one others only look at when they want something.
Except Vihaan.
I press my lips together, trying to steady myself.
Even if it was all duty, even if it was pretense, he still saw me. Looked at me like I wasn’t invisible, like I wasn’t some mistake to be hidden away. When he talks to me, when he listens—it doesn’t feel like an accident. It doesn’t feel like I’m a burden.
He remembered I wanted to study, even when I myself had pushed that wish aside. He made space for me in this palace where no one else wanted to. He—
My throat tightens again.
And yet, even with him, there are moments when the words I overheard creep in, wrapping themselves around me like chains. The wrong princess. That’s what they said. And maybe they were right. Because what am I, really, compared to the princess I should have been?
Maybe my stepmother knew it too. Maybe that’s why this letter doesn’t sting as much as it should. Because it only confirms what I already knew—no matter where I go, or whose surname I take, I will never belong fully. Not to them, not to this world.
But even so…
I clench my hands tighter, nails biting into my palms.
Even so, I will not bend. Not this time. Not when it comes to Vihaan.
He may not see me the way I see him. He may believe I was the wrong choice, or that he was tricked. But he is the only one who ever gave me a space where I could breathe without waiting for someone to remind me of my place. He is the only one who spoke to me as if I mattered, even if it was out of duty.
And for that—just for that—I cannot betray him. I will not be the mouthpiece of people who never once considered me more than a burden. I will not ask him to help them.
If this marriage is the only place I’ve ever been given a fragment of respect, I will not throw it away for people who never cared whether I lived or died.
I stand up, moving to the window, my hands clutching the curtain as I stare out into the night. The palace grounds are quiet, bathed in the silver of the moonlight, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of leaves. Somewhere in the distance, I imagine Vihaan is working late again, bent over documents in his study, his brow furrowed in that way I’ve started to memorize.
My chest aches in a way I can’t explain.
Because I want to go to him. To sit quietly across from him, to tell him what happened, to ask him to look at me the way he does when he’s not pretending for the world. But then the memory of those words in that council chamber flashes again, sharp and unforgiving.
They gave you the wrong princess.
They are known for deceiving people, anyway. It doesn’t surprise me.
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Maybe he didn’t mean it that way. Maybe he only said it because politics demands cruelty sometimes. But the part of me that has always been unwanted, unloved, clings to it, whispering that it was the only truth spoken aloud.
And so, I cannot bring myself to go to him tonight.
