And then it’s just us.
The silence stretches. I can hear the faint whir of the air conditioner, the ticking of her bracelet as it trembles against her wrist. My chest feels tight, but I don’t move. I’ve faced angry ministers, military councils, journalists—but I’ve never felt this kind of nervous before.
Because this isn’t about duty. This is about her.
Sitara finally speaks, her voice soft but shaking. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I blink. “Do what?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely between us. “Play savior. Be the noble king who fixes the broken bride’s story. It’s very… cinematic, I’ll give you that. But it’s also unnecessary.”
There’s a hint of sarcasm there, but it’s brittle. Like she’s holding herself together with humor and hoping I won’t notice the cracks. Too late. I already see every single one.
“I’m not trying to fix you, Sitara. You’re not broken.”
She laughs—sharp, hollow. “I was left at the mandap. That’s not exactly the definition of ‘whole.’”
“You’re allowed to be hurt,” I reply. “But don’t let one man’s cowardice define you.”
Her eyes finally lift to meet mine, and god, they’re red. There’s something about seeing her cry that feels wrong, like the world got the script wrong somewhere. Sitara Singh Shekhawat isn’t supposed to cry—she’s supposed to talk too much, laugh too loud, and roll her eyes when someone calls herprincess.
“I would be using you if we get married,” she blurts suddenly. “You realize that, right?”
I frown. “Using me?”
“Yes.” She pushes herself off the bed, pacing. “I’m saying yes because I’m embarrassed. Because I can’t handle people talking about me, or my family, or Bhai-sa’s reputation. Because my fear of being judged is so big it’s basically a third person in this room. That’s why I said yes. Not because you deserve to be dragged into my—”
“Sitara.”
She keeps pacing. “—ridiculous mess of a life. You’re a king. You have an image, a whole damn kingdom, and I’m—”
“Sitara.”
She stops mid-sentence, breathing hard. Her eyes are wild, shimmering with tears.
I step closer, slowly. “You done calling yourself names?”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” My voice softens, but I don’t look away. “You said you’re ridiculous, messy, and using me. None of that’s true. You’re scared, yes. Humiliated, maybe. But don’t confuse those things for your worth.”
She blinks, her lower lip trembling slightly. “You’re… weirdly calm for someone whose life I just hijacked.”
I smile a little. “I’ve been through worse.”
Her brow furrows. “Like what?”
“State dinners,” I say solemnly. “Have you ever sat through one of those? Three hours of pretending to care about irrigation policy while the soup gets cold.”
She snorts despite herself. The sound loosens something tight in my chest.
“See?” I murmur. “That’s better.”
She shakes her head, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth before fading again. “Dhruv, I mean it. What if you regret this later? What if one day you wake up and realize you married someone who’s stupidly talkative and clumsy and huge and—okay, that’s enough, don’t laugh—”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Not loud, but enough that her mouth falls open in disbelief.
“Did you just laugh at me?” she demands, her eyebrows raising in challenge.
