Before she can argue, I push the door open.
The room is vast, lined with bookshelves and heavy drapes that filter the sunlight into muted gold. The scent of sandalwood and ink lingers in the air. Behind the massive desk sits Maharaj, bent over some papers, his pen scratching against parchment. When he hears the door, he looks up.
“Good. You’re here.”
His voice is clipped, businesslike. No greeting. No warmth. Just words that weigh too much.
He rises, straightening the cuffs of his crisp white achkan before slipping on his coat. Everything about him is precise, controlled. Even his movements feel rehearsed.
“I sent your marriage proposal to Kunwar Vihaan Singh Shekawat,” he says, as casually as if he’s announcing the weather.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. The words hang in the air, sharp and cold, slicing through whatever fragile calm I carried here.
Marriage.
To Kunwar Vihaan Singh Shekawat.
Oh no. No, no, no. This was the last thing I expected. The last thing I wanted.
“Who…” My voice falters. “Who would want to marry me?”
His gaze hardens. “He said he wants to meet you.”
My stomach drops like a stone hurled into a deep well. The room tilts. I grip the edge of the nearest chair, trying to steady myself.
Why? How is that possible? Does he not know who I am? What I am?
Does he not know I’m the illegitimate child everyone whispers about behind closed doors?
“I need you to marry him,” Digvijay says, his tone firm, final.
“Bhai-sa—”
“Enough.” His voice cracks like a whip. “I am your Maharaj, not your bhai-sa.”
The words slam into me, hard and merciless. I go still, my breath lodged somewhere deep in my throat.
He stares at me, waiting for compliance, for silence. But something inside me stirs—weak, trembling, but alive.
“I… I don’t want to marry right now,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “Rajkumari Koyal is older than me. She—”
“I didn’t ask for your advice,” he snaps, his voice booming through the room, shaking the fragile walls I’ve built inside myself. “God, what is wrong with the women in this palace?”
I flinch, every muscle taut with fear.
“In fact,” he continues, his face darkening, “you’re not even a part of this family. Just because your mother decided to whore around with my—”
“Maharaj!” The word tears out of me like a scream, raw and jagged. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I cannot—will not—hear a word against my mother. No matter who says it. No matter the throne they sit on.
“She was my mother,” I whisper, my voice shaking but firm. “Please don’t speak about her like that. It wasn’t her fault. It was my father’s. He knew he was married. I’m not defending her, but… how could she defy a king? They loved each other. It should have been him who stopped it.”
His eyes darken, his jaw tightening like a steel trap. “Did you just raise your voice at me?”
I force myself not to shrink, though my hands tremble at my sides. “Please,” I say softly, “don’t talk about my mother like that.”
His laugh is cold, humorless. “I’m not asking for your permission. I have already told him yes. The marriage will take place next week.” He walks closer. “You better convince him.” He glares, his finger pointing at me.
