Within minutes, I’m striding through the palace corridor, my phone buzzing with constant notifications—media requests, alerts from social platforms, a draft statement waiting for my approval.
In the courtyard, I see it.
Maasi-sa, standing regal in her heavy silks, her kohl-lined eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction as she talks to a cluster of journalists who should never have been allowed past the gates without clearance. Her voice carries, sharp and honeyed all at once.
“Yes, of course we celebrate the marriages of our nephews,” she says, feigning graciousness. “But you see, some unions… are more respectable than others. The common girl who wed Devraj, and now the illegitimate princess with Vihaan—our lineage has certainly been… diluted.”
The words fall like stones into water, spreading ripples too fast for me to catch. Cameras flash. Pens scratch on notepads. A few journalists glance toward the entrance, waiting for me—the official PR head—to appear and respond.
My chest burns.
I take a deep breath, smoothing the anger from my features. The first rule of public relations: never let them see you rattled.
I step forward, my voice steady, cool. “Maasi-sa.”
She turns, her smile widening. “Ah, Vihaan beta. Come, won’t you join us? The press is very eager for clarity.”
Clarity. That’s her word for poison.
I incline my head politely to the journalists, then gesture to one of the staff members hovering nearby. “Please bring refreshments for our guests.” Always disarm with courtesy first.
When I face the reporters, I give them the practiced smile that has appeared on magazine covers. “The Shekhawat familyis honored by your interest. However, I must correct something before it spreads further. My brother’s wife, and my own, are not topics for speculation. They are members of this family, deserving the same respect as anyone born into it. Their character, their strength, their grace—these are what matter. Not the circumstances of their birth.”
My tone is calm, almost conversational, but I meet each gaze firmly.
A murmur runs through the group. Pens pause. Cameras click again.
Maasi sa tilts her head, pretending innocence. “Surely, Vihaan, you don’t mean to dismiss centuries of royal lineage? Tradition is what holds us together.”
“Tradition,” I reply evenly, “is not meant to be a weapon against our own blood. Nor against the women we’ve chosen to build our future with.”
There’s a beat of silence. Even the birds in the courtyard seem to hold back their song.
Inside, I want to tear the satisfaction from her face, to wipe away that smirk that flickers each time she glances at the journalists. But I keep my composure. Losing it here would mean letting her win.
I turn to the press again. “The Shekhawat family stands united. Our people deserve leaders who are strong not because of whom they exclude, but because of whom they embrace. That is our truth.”
I know the phrasing is deliberate, strong enough to be quoted, soft enough not to sound defensive.
The questions come quickly then—about upcoming initiatives, about Bhai-sa’s policies, about my own projects in cultural preservation. I answer smoothly, redirecting, weaving dignity back into the narrative thread Maasi-sa tried to unravel.
At last, the journalists disperse, some smiling, some whispering. The staff lead them out politely, and the courtyard quiets.
Only then do I face her fully.
Her smile is razor-sharp. “You’ve grown very skilled, Vihaan. But don’t forget—truth has a way of surfacing. And not all truths are… flattering.”
The muscle in my jaw twitches, but I bow slightly. “Thank you for your concern, Maasi-sa. I assure you, the truth we stand on is unshakable.”
She tsks, patting my arm lightly as if I were a child. “We’ll see.”
When she sweeps away, her silks whispering behind her, I finally let my lungs empty.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Not because she said it, but because I know Poorvi might hear of it. She doesn’t need more voices reminding her of where she came from, of how she doesn’t “fit.”
I will not let them use her as a weapon against me.
As PR head, I can manage the media storm. I can spin her venom into words of unity and strength. But as a husband—my role is different. Harder. To convince one woman, the one who matters, that she belongs. That no lineage, no cruel smile, no whispered rumor can change that.
