The Promised Queen

𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

RIDHIMA

For a long time, Mumma didn't say anything. The air between us was thick — full of unspoken things that felt heavier than the words themselves.

When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet that I almost didn't hear it.

"It was me."

I blinked. "What?"

Her eyes dropped to the floor. "The letters, Laado. It was me who hid them."

The world seemed to tilt a little. I could still hear her voice, but my mind was trying to make sense of the words.

"When you were leaving for your studies," she continued, her hands twisting the edge of her dupatta, "I didn't want this palace, or the people here, to hold you back. You were meant for so much more, Ridhima. I couldn't watch you get tangled in all this again — the politics, the gossip, the same walls that broke your father. I couldn't let it take you too."

Her words came in pieces, trembling, breaking apart mid-sentence, like even she couldn't hold them anymore.

"You were just a girl," she whispered. "And I knew what went on here... I'd seen it all too closely. I thought — if I could make you forget, even for a little while, maybe you'd be free. Maybe you'd never look back."

She paused, looking at me, her eyes brimming. "So I kept them. Every letter he sent. I told myself it was for your good."

I just stood there, staring at her. I didn't know what to say.

She kept speaking, apologies spilling out faster now. "I know it was wrong, Laado. I know I shouldn't have decided for you. I thought if I could protect you from the pain of this place, you'd be safe. I was just—"

"Protecting me?" I cut in, my voice trembling even though I wasn't shouting. "By taking away my choice? By letting him think I never cared?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry."

But the word barely reached me.

All I could think of was him.
Hruday.
The way his voice had faltered every time he spoke about that letter — the quiet anger, the disappointment he had swallowed for years.

He thought I ignored him. That I forgot him.
That I left him without even a goodbye.

The look on his face when he spoke of it — that small, crestfallen hurt I never understood until now — it burned in my chest.

"You hated this place so much," I said softly, my throat dry, "yet you let me marry him?"

Mumma flinched, guilt flooding her expression. "Because..." She paused, her voice breaking. "Because I also knew that no one could love and cherish you the way the Yuvraaj does."

The words hit harder than I expected.

I went still. Completely still.

She kept talking — explanations, apologies, reasons — but it all blurred into a low hum around me. I wasn't hearing her anymore.

The only sound echoing inside my head was his voice.

"I waited."

The letter.
I looked up suddenly.

"The letter," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Mumma froze.

"Where is it?"