It’s strange how quickly time begins to fold into itself when you stop counting hours and start living in routines instead. I don’t wake up startled anymore. I don’t reach for my phone the moment my eyes open, half-expecting bad news or another thing I need to brace myself for. The palace doesn’t feel foreign when I open my eyes now. It feels… quiet. Not empty. Just settled.
I lie in bed for a moment longer than I should, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of the palace waking up. Footsteps in the corridor. Soft voices. The distant clink of cutlery from the dining hall below. Somewhere, a bird calls, persistent and cheerful, like it’s personally invested in my morning.
Two weeks, and my body already knows this place. I eventually push myself up, hair falling into my face, and swing my legs off the bed. I don’t rush; I don’t need to. There’s no anxiety clawing at my ribs, no frantic checklist screaming at me tohurry up before I fall behind. I don’t think this ease would have been possible without Dhruv and his family making me feel so comfortable, I am so grateful.
The door opens softly, just as it does every morning.
“Maharani-sa,” Maya says, her voice polite, careful.
I flinch internally—still not used to that title—but I smile anyway. “Good morning, Maya.”
She nods, stepping in with a tray of tea and neatly folded clothes. Maya has been… nice. That’s the word I keep coming back to. Nice, in a distant, professional way. Dhruv assigned her to me despite my very vocal protests.
“I don’t need a personal maid,” I had insisted, arms crossed, trying to sound firm instead of overwhelmed. “I’ve survived twenty-five years just fine.” I have never liked the concept. Back at home, Bhai-sa had insisted I should have personal help, but I had denied so furiously, he never tried asking again. I don’t see the need for it. I am perfectly capable of doing things on my own.
But Dhruv had looked at me for a long moment, expression unreadable, then said, gently, “You don’t need one. But you deserve care, anyway.” Then he added, like it was an afterthought, “She’s been in this palace since we were kids. She’ll take good care of you.”
That had ended the argument before it could even begin.
Maya moves around the room efficiently, setting things in place, adjusting the curtains just enough to let the morning light in without blinding me. I try to make conversation—ask her how long she’s been here, what she likes to do when she’s not working—but she answers in short sentences, polite smiles that never quite reach her eyes.
Maybe she’s shy. Maybe she doesn’t like me. Maybe she’s uncomfortable with new people.
Or maybe I’m overthinking it, like I do everything.
Still, I keep trying. I would like to have a friend here. By that, I remember I need to call Tia soon. In all this chaos, I completely forgot to ask her how her finals had gone.
I sip my tea, change into the clothes she’s laid out, and thank her when she leaves. She bows slightly before stepping out, closing the door behind her.
The room feels quieter without her.
Breakfast is always with Dhruv.
Always.
No matter how early his meetings start or how late he was up the night before, he makes time for breakfast. It’s become…ours. A small, sacred pocket of the day before everything else claims him.
He’s already there when I walk in, standing near the window, sunlight catching in his hair. He looks up from his phone and turns when he hears me, a very small, almost invisible smile forms on his lips.
“Morning, princess,” he says.
“Good Morning,” I reply, rolling my eyes at his use of ‘princess’, suddenly I feel very aware of my posture, my hair, the way I’m holding myself. He doesn’t comment on any of it. He never does. Instead, he reaches into the vase on the table and hands me a single flower.
Every day.
Today it’s a pale yellow rose.
“For friendship and warmth,” he says, like he’s reciting a fun fact instead of something he’s clearly researched. “It also symbolizes new beginnings.”
I stare at him for a second, then burst out laughing. “You are such a nerd.”
He chuckles. “You married me.”
“I married you in a crisis,” I point out, taking the flower anyway. “Very different.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but smiles a bit. He pulls my chair out for me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I sit, still smiling despite myself, and place the rose beside my plate.
Breakfast is comfortable. Easy. We talk about nothing and everything at the same time. Or I should say, I talk and he listens like always. It annoys me sometimes, but I also know he’s a quiet kind of guy, so I don’t try to push too much. He asks me what I’m working on, listens when I ramble about illustration styles and color palettes, and nods like it all makes perfect sense.
