𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧

60⚚ Little one

My dear sweets!!

It's really hard for me to say this, but I need to be honest with you all. Lately, I've been feeling like this story isn't going the way I hoped. Some of you have pointed out that I've been repeating lines, that the flow is off, and that maybe the emotions are dragging too much—and it's hurting the reading experience.

So I genuinely want to ask... how many of you feel that way too? Even if this chapter felt like that, please just take a moment to tell me how you felt after reading it.

And to my silent readers—I know it's not always easy to comment, and I've never forced you. But just this once... please. If you care about this book, let me know. Because if no one is really connecting with it anymore, if you're not feeling it... I'm honestly considering deleting this.

I'm not writing this just for myself. I write for you. And if you're not here, reading, feeling, caring... then what's left for me to hold on to?

So please—be honest. I need to hear from you.

Author POV:

The golden glow of morning sunlight gently spilled through the half-open window, casting warm streaks across the soft bedding. The light crept forward slowly, eventually kissing the face of the person curled up under the comforter.

With a soft frown and a sleepy pout, the girl shifted, her brows knitting as the warmth tickled her lashes. She turned to the other side with a little grumble, clearly unhappy about being pulled from slumber.

Stretching her arms out, a small sigh escaped her lips. "Hmmph..." she mumbled, eyes still closed. And just like that—our princess is awake.

But the moment her heavy eyelids fluttered open, the sparkle that usually lit up her face each morning was absent. Her gaze fell to the empty space beside her—cold, untouched, painfully hollow.

Her hand reached out to the side of the bed instinctively. Empty.

No note on the coffee table. No scribbled "good morning, my highness" with a doodle. Nothing.

Her lips trembled as the realization settled in. Again. The first ache of the day, striking right in the chest.

It had been like this for a week now.

Yes—seven long days since Amaira returned from Ruhi's palace. Seven days since everything had come crashing down and started rearranging itself into something far more painful than before.

She had told them everything—every single word Veer had said to her. Every horrible truth. Every twist of betrayal. Every tear that never made it to her cheeks in that haunted place.

All her brothers were present when she spoke, but Viraj... he stood in the farthest corner, arms crossed, face unreadable, eyes hauntingly still. He didn't ask a single question. Didn't say a single word. He just listened—and walked away when it was done.

And two days ago... something else shifted.

Agastya had finally mustered the courage to come to her. His head bowed, guilt painted across every inch of his face, apologies pouring from his lips like broken confessions. He kept saying sorry—again and again—until it started sounding like a prayer.

But Amaira never needed one.

She was never angry with him. How could she be?

He was the only piece of blood family she had left. No matter what he'd done, no matter how deep the wound had cut, she could never hold hate in her heart for him.

Not when she'd grown up hugging him like her world. Not when she knew—deep down—that what happened wasn't entirely his fault.

So she forgave him. Genuinely. Without conditions.