She lets out a shaky laugh. “It’s easy to say.”
I squeeze her hand before I realize I’m still holding it. “Maybe I don’t know what happens in your family, but in ours, you don’t need permission unless you’re going against the crown.”
She hums, her lips pressing into a line.
“Do you need time?” I ask.
Her eyes snap to mine. “What’s your decision?”
I chuckle. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Why?” She pouts, and something about it almost makes me laugh out loud.
“Because I know my decision will affect yours,” I say simply.
Her mouth falls open, stunned. I grin, shrugging. “I may not know a thing about psychology, but I’ve grown up breathing politics. It’s easy to read people now.” Besides she’s very easy to read apparently, her eyes really are the window to her soul.
She hums again, then whispers, “Can I be honest with you?”
I smile. “That’s why we’re here, Poorvi.”
She bites her lip, hesitating, then says quietly, “I think I’ll never get a better match than you.”
My brows shoot up, a smile tugging at my lips. “I see. You’re going with logic.”
Color floods her cheeks, and she looks away, smiling shyly. “So… I’ll be saying yes.”
I nod slowly. “And you?” she asks, her voice so small it almost disappears.
I rise, letting her hand slip gently from mine. “I could never deny you, Rajkumari Poorvi.” I smile down at her, meaning every word. “I promise I’ll do my best to be a good life partner to you.”
She nods, a faint smile curving her lips—but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
And I know why.
She may be agreeing with her words, but her heart? It’s still locked in a cage Digvijay built.
So in this moment, one thing becomes clear to me: This isn’t about politics anymore. Not for me.
It’s about her.
Because the girl sitting across from me—who thinks of herself as a shadow, who dreams of healing others while carrying wounds no one sees—she deserves someone to fight for her.
And maybe… just maybe… that someone is me.
CHAPTER 5
A Guest At My Own Wedding
POORVI
The palace has never looked more alive. Bright marigold garlands drape the ivory pillars, mogra strings hang like delicate chains from the ceilings, their sweet fragrance almost dizzying. The rhythmic thump of dhol beats echo faintly from the inner courtyards, where servants scurry like ants carrying trays of sweets, bolts of silk, and brass plates piled with turmeric and flowers.
It should feel like a dream—my dream. My wedding. My big day.
But as I stand here, pressed against the cool sandstone pillar at the far end of the hall, it feels more like I’ve wandered into someone else’s story.
They are everywhere—women in shimmering lehengas whispering about the grandeur of the ceremony, men in regal turbans laughing over how the alliance will make history. My name is on their lips, but not my voice. No one has asked me what I want, what colors I like, or how I imagined this day as a little girl. They are planning a wedding for a princess, just not forme.
