The Promised Queen

𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝑜𝓃𝑒

RIDHIMA

Hruday stood at the door, looking strangely out of place—as if he didn't belong here, yet couldn't bring himself to leave either.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, painting him in hues of gold and shadow. The soft hum of the air conditioner was the only sound breaking the silence, but even that felt distant, drowned out by the weight between us.

I took him in, noticing just how different he looked from his usual put-together self.

His hair, always styled to perfection, was an unruly mess, strands falling over his forehead as if he had run his fingers through it one too many times. His shirt, usually crisp and neatly tucked, was wrinkled, the fabric creased in ways that suggested he had been wearing it for far too long. The top two buttons were undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones, the tense muscles in his throat shifting with every controlled breath he took.

And then there was the stubble.

Dark, rough along his jawline, making him look rugged in a way that was almost unsettling. Hruday Singh Tanwar was always composed, always in control. But standing there now, he looked anything but. His exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, his usually sharp eyes dulled with something heavier, something unreadable.

And yet, despite it all, he still managed to look annoyingly good.

Our eyes met—just for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

A flicker of something unspoken passed between us, something fragile and too heavy all at once. Then, just as quickly, we both looked away, as if neither of us was ready to acknowledge it.

The silence was suffocating.

Not just because of what had happened in the last 24 hours. But because of what had happened between us the night before the wedding.

The way we had kissed. The way we had fought.

The way we had left things unresolved, hanging between us like a precariously balanced thread, fraying at the edges.

And now here we were. Unsure of what to say, where to even begin.

This wasn't supposed to feel this awkward.

I cleared my throat, desperate to break the tension. "Avni?"

Hruday's shoulders tensed slightly, like he had been expecting the question. But then, after a long pause, I finally heard his voice for the first time since I woke up.

"She's okay," he said, his tone deeper, rougher than usual—like he hadn't spoken properly in days. "She's in the other room."

The sound of his voice sent an unexpected warmth through my chest, a sensation I hadn't prepared for.

I had missed it.

Another beat of silence passed, longer this time. I glanced down at my hands, fingers curling slightly against the soft hospital sheets.

We needed to talk.

We needed to say something.

But I didn't know where to start.

My gaze flickered toward the chair beside my bed, the only other seat in the room. The sterile white walls and beeping monitors made everything feel too impersonal, too distant.

"You can sit, you know," I murmured, breaking the silence.

Hruday hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. And then, finally, he stepped forward, crossing the small space between us. For the first time, the awkwardness seemed to dissipate, just a little.