The Promised Queen

𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓇𝓉𝓎

RIDHIMA

My heart was still racing, the adrenaline from our mad dash through the palace refusing to settle. 

I leaned against the door, trying to catch my breath, but the reality of the situation was sinking in fast.

Hruday was in my room.

I glanced at him, half expecting him to pace or scold me for dragging him here. Instead, he stood quietly, his sharp gaze sweeping across the space like he was trying to memorize every detail.

I straightened, suddenly feeling self-conscious. The room was simple, not as grand as the others in the palace—just a few personal touches here and there. 

My books stacked haphazardly on the side table, a few cushions thrown around, and some photos on the shelf. 

Nothing out of place, but everything suddenly felt too intimate with him standing here.

He moved slowly, inspecting the room with quiet curiosity. Hruday never did anything in haste. Everything was deliberate, calculated—even now, as his fingers lightly grazed the spines of my books.

"Your room," he said quietly, more to himself than to me. "It's... different."

"Different?" I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms in mock defiance. "What were you expecting? Chandeliers and velvet curtains?"

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "No. Just... different."

I watched as his eyes traveled to the shelf by the window. The photos.

I tensed slightly, resisting the urge to stop him as he walked toward them, his movements slow, thoughtful.

He paused in front of the shelf, scanning the small collection of framed memories. Snapshots of a younger me—with my family, with Swayam, even one with Nishi during a summer trip to Ajmer.

Then his gaze landed on a particular photo.

A picture of the two of us.

We couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old. I was grinning, holding a wooden sword, and Hruday was sitting next to me, scowling at the camera like someone had dragged him there against his will. 

We were in the palace gardens—back when things were simpler, before life pulled us in different directions.

He picked up the frame, his thumb brushing over the glass as he stared at it intently. His expression shifted—not his usual cool indifference, but something deeper. Something quieter.

I stood frozen, watching as his brow furrowed slightly, as if he were trying to decipher a long-forgotten puzzle.

"You kept this," he murmured, his voice low.

I swallowed, feeling an odd mix of emotions stir in my chest. "It's just a picture."

He glanced at me then, his dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that made me feel like he could see straight through me.

"Is it?" he asked, his tone unreadable.

I shifted on my feet, crossing my arms tighter across my chest. "It's... nostalgic. That's all. You don't have to overthink it."

He looked back at the photo, his lips pressing into a thin line. "We were so different then."

"Well, you were. I was perfect," I said quickly, falling into sarcasm like a shield. It was easier than acknowledging the weight of this moment.

He smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Perfect? That's debatable."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. I was the life of the palace. You were the one who moped around like a grumpy old man trapped in a child's body."