Devraj’s little sister.
The girl who once spilled chai all over my crisp white kurta, then blamed me for “standing too still” because I could have moved. The girl who argued with me about books, laughed at my stupid jokes, and somehow turned every silence into something comfortable.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about her this way. I’ve told myself that enough times to know it by heart.
But it doesn’t stop the ache.
I weave through the corridor, checking on the guests’ arrangements, my mind tugging in two directions—the part that wants to be useful, and the part that keeps replaying every conversation I’ve ever had with her.
We met years ago. I was attending one of Devraj’s palace charity events, all stiff introductions and political handshakes, when I saw her standing in the corner, sipping lemonade like she wished the floor would swallow her whole. She wasn’t like the other royals—no pretense, no performative grace. Just this mix of awkward charm and quiet strength that made her stand out more than any diamond necklace ever could.
I had asked if she wanted to escape the crowd. She had looked up at me, eyes wide, suspicious at first. “Do you say that to all of Devraj bhai-sa’s guests, or am I just lucky?”
That was the first time I saw her smile. It has been trouble ever since.
Over the years, friendship became our rhythm. She’d come to me for small things—random questions, sarcastic banter, orto rant about Devraj being overprotective. And I played along, hiding how every small interaction felt like a quiet blessing.
I never told her how I felt. Never planned to.
For one, she’s Devraj’s sister. That alone is reason enough to stay in my lane.
Second, she’s five years younger. I don’t care, but she might.
And third—she’s happy talking to me like I’m just a friend. Someone safe. Someone unthreatening.
And maybe that’s what I am.
A safe place she can land when life gets too loud.
And as much as it hurts, I’d rather be something to her than nothing at all.
I glance toward the end of the hallway, where Devraj is giving instructions to one of the security officers. His expression is sharp, controlled, but I can tell he’s stressed. This wedding has been planned down to the minute, and he’s been carrying it like another royal duty. I walk over.
“Everything alright?” I ask.
He exhales. “Yes. Just last-minute checks. The press has been kept outside the main grounds. Guests are being seated. Poorvi and Meher are with Sitara.”
“She must be nervous,” I say softly.
Devraj nods, his tone gentler now. “She is. But she’s brave, my sister. She hides it well.”
She does. That’s what I love/hate about her—she feels everything deeply but never lets the world see how much it costs her to hold it all together.
“You’ve done well,” I tell him. “Everything looks perfect.”
He gives me a small smile, that rare, unguarded one that only those closest to him ever see. “Thank you, Dhruv. I appreciate you being here.”
“Always,” I reply, and I mean it.
We talk logistics for a few minutes before he’s called away, leaving me by the balcony overlooking the main courtyard. From here, I can see the guests gathering, flashes of bright lehengas and gold sherwanis, laughter carried by the evening breeze.
Somewhere inside, she’s getting ready.
The thought makes my chest tighten.
I imagine her fussing over her dupatta, muttering about the weight of her jewelry, trying to smile while fighting off her anxiety. She always jokes when she’s nervous. She’ll probably tell Meher bhabhi that the lehenga weighs more than she does.
And she’ll look beautiful—because she always does, even when she doesn’t think so.
