“I don’t want anyone else,” he says roughly. “It’s you who’s settling for less, so between the two of us, it’s you who needs to be sure. I’m very clear on my choice.”
“I am being selfish,” I admit, “and I am going to let you believe that, but you truly do deserve the best.”
“And thankfully, I am getting what I deserve.” A small gasp escapes me, but he doesn’t wait for my reply. He walks away, but pauses at the door and gives me one final look. “I will meet you at the mandap, princess,”
The Weight of a Promise
DHRUV
I’ve faced hostile boardrooms, political opponents with sharpened smiles, and crowds that roar with expectation—but nothing quite compares to standing in front of three brothers who love the same woman.
Devraj doesn’t ask me to sit.
Vihaan doesn’t offer tea.
Veeraj doesn’t bother hiding the fact that his jaw is locked so tight it might crack.
We’re in a side lounge away from the chaos of the wedding venue—away from guests, away from cameras, away from Sitara. That last part matters most. This conversation isn’t meant for her ears. It’s meant for my spine.
Devraj stands across from me, arms crossed, shoulders squared, the embodiment of everything people fear about power when it chooses to bare its teeth. He doesn’t look like a king right now. He looks like an elder brother who has already imagined ten different ways this could go wrong.
Vihaan leans against the wall, deceptively relaxed, hands in his pockets, but I’ve known him long enough to recognize the stillness before a strike. Veeraj sits on the arm of a chair, restless, protective, eyes scanning me like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve yet.
Three brothers.
One promise.
One woman.
And me—standing in the middle, breathing carefully, because I know exactly how much this moment matters.
Devraj breaks the silence first.
“You understand why we asked you here.”
It isn’t a question.
I nod. “Yes.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” Veeraj says, voice sharp, almost accusing. “You could’ve stepped back. Let the mess sort itself out.”
I meet his gaze calmly. “That would’ve broken her.”
Vihaan’s eyebrow lifts slightly at that, the smallest tell of surprise. Devraj’s expression doesn’t change—but something tightens around his eyes.
“She didn’t ask you to save her,” Devraj says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “She didn’t.”
I don’t explain myself yet. I don’t rush. These men don’t respect panic. They respect certainty.
“And yet,” I continue, “she shouldn’t have had to stand alone.”
Veeraj scoffs softly. “You make it sound noble.”
“It wasn’t,” I say honestly. “It was instinct.”
That’s the truth. I didn’t step forward because I wanted applause, or loyalty points, or a grand gesture to be remembered. I stepped forward because I looked at Sitara—standing on a mandap meant for someone else, carrying embarrassment like armor—and something in me refused to let that moment define her life. When I’d first met her, she hadn’t been this bold. She’s always been brave, but it seems as though someone had made her feel like she was lesser than she is—that she didn’t deserve the best. And although she acts as though she’s outgrown that thought, she’s still an overthinker.
