The Promised Queen

𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝓍

HRUDAY

I tightened the last button on my sherwani, my fingers trembling slightly, betraying the storm brewing inside me. 

The soft fabric clung to my skin, its intricate embroidery catching the morning light filtering through the window. Everything was perfect, as it should be for a royal wedding.

But my thoughts were anything but perfect. They were a mess—chaotic, tangled, replaying the events of last night over and over again.

Ridhima.

Her face. Her voice. The way she had looked at me, equal parts frustration and something else—something I couldn't name but felt deep in my chest.

I rubbed my temples, trying to push the memories away, but they refused to leave. Last night had been a blur of arguments, questions, and emotions I hadn't been prepared for. And then there was the letter.

The letter she claimed she didn't remember.

How could she have forgotten something that had meant everything to me?

I exhaled sharply, the weight of it all pressing down on me. Somewhere in the chaos of the night, I had lost my phone. 

One moment it was in my hand, the next it was gone—probably dropped in some corner of the palace while I paced and ran and tried to make sense of everything.

But I didn't have time to worry about that now.

A knock on the door pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts. One of the servants stood in the doorway, bowing slightly.

"Raja-sa," he said softly, "Maharaj-sa has returned from the hospital. He is in the main hall."

I froze for a moment, my heart skipping a beat.

Father is home.

I hadn't expected him to be discharged so soon. He had been weak, his health fragile, and seeing him in the hospital had been a constant reminder of how precarious life could be. 

But now, he was home.

I quickly straightened my sherwani and made my way down the corridor, my footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. 

Servants moved quietly around me, preparing for the day's grand celebration, but I barely noticed them. My mind was focused on one thing—seeing my father.

As I entered the main hall, the sight of him filled me with a mix of relief and sorrow.

He sat in a wheelchair, his frame thinner than I remembered, his skin pale and drawn from weeks in the hospital. 

But despite his weakened state, there was a spark in his eyes—a quiet strength that hadn't diminished.

"Bhai-sa" I heard cheerful voices as my uncle and aunt approached him, their faces lighting up with joy. 

They greeted him warmly, bending down to touch his feet and express their relief that he was home.

"Welcome back, Bhai-sa," Kaka-sa said, his voice thick with emotion. "It is good to see you."

My father smiled weakly. "It is good to be home."

Even the servants paused in their tasks to bow respectfully, offering small smiles of welcome.

But not everyone shared the same sentiment.

Rani-sa stood across the hall, rigid and unmoving, her posture as poised and cold as ever. Her gaze didn't soften, and she made no move to approach or greet my father.