The staff enters briefly, placing two cups of tea before us. I hesitate, unsure if I should touch mine until she does. When she lifts hers, I follow, though my hands tremble faintly around the porcelain.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” she says quietly, as if she can read my every thought.
I swallow, forcing myself to answer honestly. “It’s difficult not to be.”
For the first time, she smiles fully. Not a regal smile, not the composed curve of lips that belongs to a queen—but a mother’s smile, soft and human. “That is fair.”
Something eases inside me then. Not completely, but enough for me to sip the tea without worrying my hand will shake too much.
She asks small questions after that—how I find the villa, if I’ve read much, whether I enjoy traveling. Simple things, but they anchor me, make the conversation flow easier. I answercarefully, but truthfully, letting pieces of myself show without spilling too much.
At one point, she studies me again, more intently. “You remind me of someone,” she murmurs.
“Who?” slips out before I can stop it.
Her gaze drifts past me, somewhere far away. “A younger version of myself.”
The weight of that settles deep in me. I cannot imagine her the way I am. She seems so…powerful, I am not that and I can never be, I suppose.
When the conversation finally quiets, I bow my head again, setting my cup down. “Thank you, Rajmata, for your kindness.”
She leans forward slightly, her hand brushing the edge of the table. “You may call me Maa-sa, if you wish. You are, after all, my son’s wife.”
The words strike me harder than I expect. My chest tightens, warmth and disbelief tangling together. I nod slowly. “Maa-sa.” The word feels strange on my tongue, fragile but hopeful.
Her smile deepens, and in that moment, the air between us shifts. Not entirely safe, not yet—but no longer hostile.
CHAPTER 26
The Folded Truth
VIHAAN
The room is quieter without her.
I glance at the half-open door, half expecting to hear the sound of her anklets as she walks back in, the faint hum she makes under her breath when she’s lost in thought. But there’s nothing. Just the stillness of the guest room and the occasional creak of the old wooden beams.
She’s with Maa-sa right now. I hope it’s going well. I told Maa-sa to be kind, but I know Poorvi—she’ll walk in with lowered eyes, every inch of her body trying not to take up space, and yet somehow she’ll shine anyway. She does that without trying.
I open my suitcase, kneeling on the rug. I should unpack, settle in. If I don’t, I’ll forget half of what I brought. I start pulling out folded kurtas, carefully stacked shawls, and a few files I shoved at the last minute. My movements are practiced, almost mechanical.
Then my fingers brush something unfamiliar.
A folded sheet of thick parchment, tucked between two kurtas. I frown, pulling it free. The handwriting on the front isn’t mine, isn’t hers either. The slanted letters curl across the surface with deliberate precision.
I unfold it slowly.
The first line makes my jaw tighten.
You are now Kunwarani of Udaipur, and as such, your duty to your family continues.
My grip on the paper hardens, creasing the corner.
We are preparing a new venture and it would be wise for you to convince your husband to support us financially.
My jaw clenches as I fold the letter again, too neatly, as though order will soften its sting.
I sit back on the edge of the bed, the parchment still in my hand, my heart beating uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the room.
