One week later ...

The palace was a riot of —maids rushing from one wing to another, decorators hanging fresh marigolds over arches, the scent of sandalwood and lavender clinging to the air like stubborn perfume. From the outside, everything looked like a celebration.

Inside me, it felt like a funeral.

I stood in front of the mirror in a high-ceilinged chamber, layered in rich ivory sherwani embossed with muted gold thread. Royal. Heavy. Unfamiliar. My reflection didn’t smile back at me—it just stared, quietly, like it didn’t recognise who I had become.

"Fix the brooch," someone said behind me.

Another attendant carefully adjusted the emerald-and-pearl accessory pinned at my chest, the Devayan family heirloom. I resisted the urge to shrug it off. This wasn’t mine. None of this was.

There was a knock. A steward entered with a tray—dry fruits, kesar milk, and sweets that no longer tempted me. “Rana sa,” he said, for the first time using the title with bowed respect, “Rajmata ji has asked for you to be ready within the hour.”

Rana sa.

The word clanged in my head like cold metal.

In another chamber—maybe a floor above—Alakhnanda was being dressed in her ceremonial red. The queen. My bride. My jailer.

I had agreed. I had signed. My father’s threats, the eviction, the betrayal—everything had led to this.

Twelve years, I told myself. That’s all.

Twelve years until Riyansh comes of age to rule and I walk away.

I picked up the sehra from the velvet box. It shimmered under the palace lights, delicate gold strings meant to veil the groom’s face. I held it in my hands for a long moment before setting it down again.

I exactly sharply, trying to compose myself for the future .

Like I was ready !!

Meanwhile, in Alakhnanda’s chamber...

The air remained still—reverent, almost sacred—as the last piece of jewellery was clipped around her wrist. It was an antique kangan once worn by Rajmata in her own wedding, now resting like a shackle on Alakhnanda’s delicate wrist second time.

A dozen maids fluttered around her, adjusting her dupatta, smoothing the pleats of her lehenga, ensuring not a single thread was out of place. Everything had to be perfect. Because imperfection was weakness, and weakness was not permitted in queens.

Not anymore.

“Should I… put the maang-teeka too?” one of the younger maids asked hesitantly, her voice trembling.

The room went still for a breath too long.

The maang-teeka — the symbol worn in the centre of a bride’s forehead — was something no widow in Rajdavan had worn again after losing her husband. And yet… today, there she sat, being readied once more as a bride. For a second marriage. For duty, not desire.

Alakhnanda lifted her chin slowly, her gaze fixing on the mirror. A Queen stared back — red-draped, gold-armoured, lips painted with calm cruelty, but eyes...

Still human.

“I am a bride,” she said flatly, not a flicker of hesitation in her tone.

The maid nodded, hands moving obediently. The maang-teeka was placed with careful fingers just above her brows, its glint aligning with the vermillion space once filled by another her Rivaan's love… now reclaimed by someone else .

The silence returned, thick like velvet.

No one dared say another word.

Once all was done, the head maid gave a respectful bow, and the others followed. Footsteps shuffled. Anklets chimed faintly as the helpers dispersed one by one, leaving behind a silence even grand chandeliers couldn’t fill.

Alakhnanda was alone.

Truly alone.

She stayed seated, her hands resting on her lap, still as a marble statue. The mirror still held her image — flawless, formidable, and far too perfect.

But the moment she was certain the last maid had left and the doors were sealed...

Her shoulders dropped.

The warrior’s posture softened.

And her eyes… glistened.

She looked into the mirror, as if trying to see past the layers of jewellery and fabric, past the titles, past the throne. Searching for the woman beneath the crown. The girl who once loved, once hoped, once dreamt of a wedding filled with soft laughter and tender glances… not power plays and contract-bound grooms.

Her throat tightened.

A single tear welled in the corner of her eye.

It didn’t fall.

It simply shimmered — defiant, like her.

Alakhnanda pressed her palm gently to the mirror, over the reflection of her own heart.

Then she whispered to herself — not loud, but just enough for her soul to hear.

“You chose this path… now walk on it ”

And with that, she stood.

----------

The courtyard of the Devayan Palace had never looked more magnificent.

No one could guess that a Funeral was taking place here just a week before .

Underneath a canopy of white mogra and golden marigolds, the royal mandap shimmered — silk drapes billowed softly in the breeze, brass bells rang gently with every movement, and a sacred fire crackled at the centre, casting warm light on the priest seated before it.

Hundreds of dignitaries, royals, nobles, journalists, and silent watchers filled the edges of the courtyard. No cheers. No music. Only chants. This was a royal marriage, not of celebration — but of necessity.

At the farthest row, almost hidden behind two tall guards, sat Riyansh — legs swinging off the high cushioned seat, his small fingers clutching the edge of his sherwani. He was dressed in royal blue and white, a little turban on his head, too tight for his liking.

His eyes — sharp and older than his years — never blinked as they stayed fixed on the aisle.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t clap.

Because this wasn’t just a wedding.

It was change ...

He was smart enough to understand that his mother was getting married ,a new man will enter into their life .

Back in the corridor...

I walked through the sandstone halls, guided by torchlight and the weight of duty. Every guard bowed. Every maid stepped aside. Every corner held eyes I couldn't see — watching, judging, whispering.

Somewhere behind me, the royal shehnai started playing.

The wedding was moments away.

And I, Anay Sharma, the kindergarten teacher who once danced in the rain and taught kids to spell "sunshine" — was about to marry a queen.

But no amount of gold could cover the iron in the cuffs I now wore.

I stood just outside the archway, my reflection caught in the polished glass door to the garden. Crown slightly tilted, sherwani collar stiff against my neck, hands clenched by my sides. My legs felt heavier with every step that led me to this point.

A man behind me cleared his throat. “Rana sa…”

I nodded.

The royal band began to play a soft instrumental tune — not a lively shehnai, but a mournful, ceremonial one. I walked.

One step at a time.

The crowd turned to face me. Their eyes spoke everything they wouldn’t dare say aloud.

“A commoner…”

“The substitute…”

“How long until he’s dismissed?”

But I had learned to walk with invisible bruises. I kept my head high.

I searched around for my father but couldn't find him anywhere, not surprising.

And then…

She appeared.

Alakhnanda.

Draped in deep crimson, gold embroidery glowing against the firelight, a sheer veil hiding most of her face but not her eyes. Her gaze was unreadable — not soft, not harsh — just steady.

Our eyes met.

She did not blink.

Neither did I.

We walked toward each other from opposite sides — like two kings approaching a battlefield. The priest motioned us to sit.

Some mantras rang in mandap .

“Bring forward the varmala.”

We stood again as the ceremonial garlands were handed over. I bent slightly, letting her place the flowered string around my neck. Her fingers brushed my collarbone — cold. Quick. Careful.

I lifted mine — unsure why my hands trembled — and placed it around her neck. The jasmine petals touched her shoulder as she inhaled… almost imperceptibly.

We sat.

Rajmata came and ties my pinkish scarf with her red shimmering dupatta for Pheras'.

The fire blazed. The chants deepened.

“Agni ko sakshi maankar… saat phere lein…”

[Take seven sacred rounds around the fire, under its witness…]

Alakhnanda rose first.

I followed.

One circle.

Two.

Three.

At the fourth, our fingers accidentally brushed.

She flinched.

I didn’t.

Fifth.

Sixth.

On the seventh, our steps slowed.

seven rounds later, it was done.

Pheras—complete. Vows—exchanged. Sacred silence wrapped around us like the smoke from the havan, blurring the lines of right and wrong, truth and pretense.

I stood behind her now.

The priest extended a small velvet tray toward me, golden tassels fluttering from the edges.

And there it was.

The mangalsutra.

A thread woven with gold and black beads—heavy, sacred, alive with meaning.

The very spine of a marriage.

I reached for it slowly, the cool beads coiling around my fingers like fate itself.

“Vadhu ke gale mein mangalsutra pehnayiye.”

[Place the nuptial chain around the bride’s neck.]

My hands hovered behind her back. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. I leaned forward, holding my breath, as I slipped the mangalsutra around her neck.

It rested right below her collarbone—against her flawless skin, against her breath—and for a single second, I imagined this being real.

Her. Me. Us.

A marriage where this thread meant something more than obligation.

But as soon as my fingers left the chain, the spell broke.

She didn’t touch it.

Didn’t look down at it.

No sign of reverence. No smile. No acknowledgment.

Just indifference.

Like I had clipped a tag on a mannequin.

I moved back. The priest began chanting again, shifting to the sindoor now, but I—

I stared at the chain.

It looked perfect on her.

But it hung too heavy on me.

That meant nothing to her and shouldn't mean anything to me either .

"Vadhu ki maang mein sindoor bhariye!"

[Fill the bride’s hair partition with vermillion.]

The priest’s words echoed, but for me, it felt like a command from another world. My fingers hovered above the golden sindoor box — trembling, unsure.

I didn’t want to touch it.

Because the moment I did… it would be real.

I pressed my fingers hard into my thigh through the fabric of my sherwani, hoping the pain would remind me to stay still. Breathe. Be strong. You can do this, Anay.

This was just a formality. A deal. A position.

But my heart… it wasn’t listening.

I picked up the pinch of sindoor. It looked like blood.

She didn’t look at me. Not even once.

She lifted her maangteeka like a mechanical doll — perfect posture, calm face. As if she wasn’t giving away something sacred. As if this wasn’t a marriage… just a signature on a contract.

I leaned forward and filled the parting in her hair. The red powder touched her skin and for a second—just a second—my fingers lingered.

She didn’t even blink.

"Vivah sampann hua."

[The wedding is complete.]

The priest’s voice cut through my thoughts like a blade. My hand pulled back instantly, startled.

It was over.

We were married.

Just like that.

And she—

She stood up.

Without a glance. Without hesitation.

As if the seven vows hadn’t just been whispered around sacred fire. As if my presence didn’t matter.

I scrambled to my feet, unsure if I should follow. My scarf still loosely tied to hers. But she walked forward, tugging it away with her pace. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t even try.

"Alakhnanda!"

A voice—old and commanding—echoed from behind. I turned to see an elderly woman, dressed in heavy silks and authority. Her eyes didn’t beg. They ordered.

But she didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

And I…

I just stood there. In a mandap. Alone. After my own wedding.

I looked around. Everyone was watching. Staring. Whispering.

Some had sympathy.

Most had pity.

And I hated it.

I licked my dry lips ,my lashes felt heavy itself as I couldn’t bear their stares .

“Anay—”

That voice again. The old woman came closer now. Her presence wasn’t comforting, but at least it was something. I followed her. What else could I do?

I walked through the grand palace corridors—huge paintings, chandeliers, portraits of dead kings judging me from every wall. I wanted to rip them off and ask them what they were looking at.

The maids glared at me as if I was filth on their polished floors.

No one wanted me here.

Not even her.

The old woman stopped before a heavy carved door. Without a word, the guards opened it.

“Aaiye humare saath.”

[Come with me.]

Her voice wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t cruel either. Just factual. Like I was a new piece of furniture to be kept somewhere until needed.

I entered the room.

It was huge. Velvet sofas, massive dressing table, the kind of royal bed I’d only seen in TV serials. But nothing felt warm. Nothing felt mine.

“Rest here. You must be tired.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She just left. The doors closed behind her. And I…

I just stood there. Again.

My legs were paining as I looked around once, then lowered myself slowly onto the velvet settee.

I sat with my back straight, hands still folded.

And finally, after hours of trying to hold everything together...

I exhaled the breath I’d been holding for hours. The tension slipped out of me like the final string of a long, exhausting performance. My head throbbed—partly from the weight of the ceremony, partly from the heavy, over-decorated headwear that had sat like a crown of thorns since morning.

I took it off slowly, relief washing over me as I set it down on the nearby table.

My hair—sweaty and unruly—fell to my forehead, and I ran my fingers through it absently.

Finally breathing like myself again.

I looked around.

The room was straight out of a period film. A round bed sat in the center, plush and enormous, wrapped in thick velvet curtains that formed a royal canopy—perhaps to guard privacy from the watchful eyes of maids.

The walls were painted in deep royal tones, with golden motifs and colorful stone inlays arranged in floral designs that shimmered faintly under the chandelier’s glow.

In one corner: a cluster of leather sofas.

In another: a massive antique dressing table.

And then—two tall doors embedded into the far wall, wood polished and handles gold-plated.

One was likely the bathroom.

But the other?

Curiosity prickled at the edges of my fatigue.

I looked around, half-expecting someone to interrupt—perhaps a maid, or even... her.

But there was no one.

So I let my curiosity win.

I walked over to the door and reached out, fingers curling around the knob. Gently, I tried turning it.

Locked?

I frowned.

Maybe it was just stiff.

Twisting it with a little force, I heard the click.

The door gave in.

And the next moment—

“What?”

My body froze.

The door creaked wider as she stepped out—

Alakhnanda.

I stared.

Her presence was sudden and sharp, like the hush that follows a thunderclap. She stood in the doorway of the walk-in wardrobe, her silhouette framed by golden light, her eyes instantly meeting mine.

I panicked.

My hand flew off the doorknob as if I’d been burned. I took a few frantic steps back, heart slamming against my ribs.

“Shit…”

I could feel my ears and cheeks turning red, the heat rushing up my neck like a wave of guilt and mortification.

Her brow arched. Perfectly. Coldly.

“I—I didn’t know—” I stammered, lowering my gaze, suddenly aware of how close I’d come. “I wasn’t trying to— I thought it was…”

Her voice cut clean through the air.

“What are you doing here?”

I looked at her.

Was she seriously asking that?

We were just married. Minutes ago. Sacred fire, vows, sindoor—the whole circus. And yet… here she was, glaring at me like I was a trespasser.

And I had expected silence… maybe even distance.

But this—this tone, this hostility?

Unacceptable.

I straightened my shoulders. My nerves shook, yes. But I had my pride. I wasn’t someone to get crushed under cold stares.

I wasn’t someone to cry in a corner just because someone didn’t want me.

Not anymore.

“I’m your husband,” I said quietly, meeting her gaze for the first time, “Where else am I supposed to go?”

She didn’t blink.

Her expression didn’t change.

But my eyes flicked to the faint red smear in her hairline—barely visible now. The sindoor I had applied was gone. Washed off.

Deliberately.

And her neck… bare.

No mangalsutra.

No sign of the bond we’d just tied before gods and witnesses.

My voice tightened slightly, but I tried to keep it steady. “Where’s your mangalsutra?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, she stepped forward, walking past me like I didn’t exist.

“You are nothing more than a substitute, Anay Sharma,” she said, her tone laced with disdain, “Don’t overestimate your worth.”

And just like that, she brushed past, heading toward the bed like I was simply air—nothing.

No flicker of guilt.

No hesitation.

Her words struck something deep in me—something small and soft and bruised from before.

I stood there for a moment, frozen. Letting it sink in.

Then I looked down.

Smiled bitterly to myself.

So that’s how it was going to be.

Fine.

But if she thought I was someone to break that easily…

She clearly didn’t know me at all.

A sharp trrrring cut through the silence — the landline, resting on a corner table beside the carved window. She turned her head at the sound, then gracefully glided toward it, her nightwear fluttering.

I sighed and moved to the edge of the bed, lowering myself slowly onto the mattress. I didn’t even lean back—just sat. I hadn’t even touched her yet, and it already felt like trespassing.

But I was her husband now. And this—this was our bed.

Right !?

I had barely relaxed as I stretched my legs ,the bed creaked awkwardly .

She turned the moment she heard the creak of the mattress. Eyes still holding the receiver, her voice didn’t rise. It fell—like ice.

“Take away this bedsheet. And burn it.”

For a moment, I thought I misheard her.

“Rajeshri! Padma!"She called again ,louder this time .

My head snapped up.

I turned to her, stunned, I didn’t misheard.

She didn’t look at me. Didn’t even lower the receiver. As if announcing a death sentence while checking the time.

"Take the bedsheet!"The maids rushed in, confused, but they obeyed,like they always did.

I stepped away from the bed as they stripped the sheet off, careful not to meet my eyes. It was just cloth — but somehow, watching it taken away felt like watching a part of me being erased.

Twelve years. I had signed up for that.

But no one told me how long twelve years could feel in just one moment.

“Now,” she said, her voice sharper. “Burn it. I don’t sleep where strangers sit.”

I blinked. Once. Twice.

Not even anger. Just... disbelief.

I stood up slowly. "Rani sa... what was that?"

She turned, eyes like steel under the light , her expression unreadable. “I’ll burn whatever you will touch.”Her words weren’t loud — but they hit like a slap. Sharp. Measured. Unapologetic.

Another word couldn’t escape my lips .

All I could do was stand there, staring at the empty mattress — stripped bare like me — and wonder...

Would she burned me, too?

“You may go,” she said, her eyes not meeting mine. “This is my room… his room. I have arranged another bedroom for you..”

The coldness in her voice wasn’t new. But it still cut.

Not because it was cruel.

But because it was honest.

I was no one ,not even a royal blood ,I was just a commoner ,thrown forcibly in a palace .

I held her gaze for a second longer than I should have. Waiting—hoping—for something to soften, to flicker.

It didn’t.

With a quiet nod, I stepped away from the bed, the warmth of the floor chilling beneath my bare feet. I had taken only two steps toward the door when a soft thud of hurried footsteps echoed from the closed door .

Next moment, the door flunked open and small footsteps ran inside .

“Maa!”

Riyansh.

His voice burst into the room like sunlight crashing through stained glass — vibrant and playful. He charged inside, still in his wedding sherwani, a little smudge of sweet on the corner of his lip, clutching something in his hand — maybe a piece of laddoo.

And then he saw me.

He didn’t stop. But his feet stilled — just for a breath.

Our eyes met.

And I saw it.

Not confusion.

Not curiosity.

Not even fear.

Just… disgust.

That quiet, unspoken revulsion only a child can carry.

As though I was something that shouldn’t have been there.

BUT they brought me here !

Like a wrong painting hung in the palace corridor. An ugly note in an otherwise perfect song.

But it's not my fault !

He said nothing. Not even a greeting. Just brushed past me — as though my presence offended the air he breathed.

Rani sa's expression changed instantly. Her face, a mask of frost only seconds ago, melted into maternal affection. She bent toward her son, kneeling slightly as her hand smoothed over his collar.

“There you are, baby ,” she whispered with a smile, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Still in your wedding sherwani? Why didn't you changed it ? And why are you roaming around at this hour ?.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Riyansh mumbled, wrapping an arm around her neck, childlike and tired.

She laughed softly — a warm, private sound I had never heard directed at me.

“You didn’t even finish your laddoo,” she teased gently, dabbing the corner of his mouth.

I stood there.

Unmoving.

Uninvited.

Watching the two of them — the mother and son wrapped in a world where I was not even a shadow.

The pang in my chest wasn’t sharp. It was dull. Familiar. Like pressing on an old bruise you hoped had faded.

I remembered My mother and Me ,starring at My father and his new family from afar .

They looked like a painting. Untouched by grief. Or maybe bound by it. But still whole. Complete.

And I — the man who had married her just hours ago — didn’t belong in the frame.

My feet finally moved. The heavy silence behind me gave way to a quiet thud as I shut the door softly. And the moment it closed, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

And then I saw her.

Rajmata.

Standing at the edge of the corridor like always– Composed and Silent .

Not in shock. Not even in pity.

Just... standing.

Like she was expecting, I would be thrown out !

Her hands were folded in front of her, rings glinting under the soft yellow corridor lights, and her eyes locked onto mine with a calmness that almost made me flinch.

I straightened instinctively. I didn’t know what to say.I bowed to her showing my respect —the gesture was not even needed but it was the only thing rushed in my mind .

The silence between us felt louder than the sound of the celebration drums that still echoed faintly from the distant courtyards.

I had just left my wedding chamber.

And already, I had nowhere to go.

Twelve years.

I had promised her twelve years.

But no one had told me that the hardest part wouldn’t be fighting outside.

It would be the peace inside.

The marble under my feet had grown colder. I stood there, unsure whether to turn or stay, when Rajmata’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“Why are you here?”Her tone wasn’t accusing. It was curious.

I didn’t flinch. Just gave a wry half-smile. “Rani sa threw me out.”

A moment passed. The silence wasn’t surprised — it was resigned.

Rajmata said nothing. She turned with a calm nod and gestured toward the tall guards stationed by the carved teak doors. “Open it.”

The guards glanced at one another, uncertain.

“I said,” she repeated, voice like iron wrapped in silk, “open it.”

The latch clicked. The doors creaked apart.

The scent of incense and rose-scented oil wafted out, mingled with a faint hint of sandalwood — opposite of what I have experienced.

She was inside, kneeling near the bed with Riyansh in front of her, gently helping him out of his sherwani. A maid was spreading a new ivory sheet over the large bed, smoothing its corners like she’d done it a hundred times.

Rani sa didn’t even look up. Not at me. Not even at Rajmata.

But I saw her jaw tighten.

Rajmata walked in, each step deliberate. She didn’t wait for permission.

“Come,” she said simply, and I followed her into the room I had just been exiled from minutes ago.

Alakhnanda’s eyes finally flicked upward.

Not at me.

At her.

And what I saw in them wasn’t fear. It was irritation — thinly veiled behind her neutral face.

Rajmata turned and called out, “Bring in Rana sa’s belongings.”

Two servants came in immediately, each holding parts of the modest luggage I’d brought — red trolly suitcases.simple. They placed the suitcases down beside the carved wooden wardrobe with a quiet thump.

Rajmata’s eyes didn’t move from Alakhnanda.

Then she turned to me with calm authority, like she was announcing the day's prayers.

“Rana sa, you should change and rest. Tomorrow is your coronation ceremony.”

I opened my mouth — to object, to protest, to say something—anything.

But Rani sa's voice rose before I could.

“This man—”

She didn’t finish.

Rajmata turned slowly.

There was no malice in her voice. Just quiet, authority. “If you do not respect me,” she said, voice steady, “at least respect the title of Rana sa. At least respect the relation you two have .”

Her eyes narrowed. “And if you wish to throw him out again, do so. I won’t stop you. But I will request your brother to departure with you .”

The room held its breath.

Even the maid froze near the bedpost.

Alakhnanda said nothing and glanced at the maid who lowered her head and immediately rushed outside crossing us .

Then ,she glanced at me .Her silence was not surrender.

Her eyes were telling me ,I would face the consequences.

But the silence didn’t last long.

Riyansh — still standing in his half-buttoned shirt of his yellow duckling printed nightdress, his tiny fists clenched — looked at Rajmata with the righteous fire only a child can carry.

“I don’t want him here Dadi sa!” he burst out. “I don’t respect him! I want him to leave!”

It wasn’t a tantrum.

It was a decree.

My chest twisted.

I looked at Alakhnanda whose eyes didn’t changed .

"Badtameezi mat kariye Kunwar sa ,vo bade hai aap se , Pita hai vo aapke!"Rajmata roared .

[Don’t be disrespectful, Kunwar sa ,he is elder than you,he is your father.]

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even Riyansh, all courage puffed up in his silk night dress, seemed to shrink just a little under her voice. His small fists clenched, but he didn’t speak again. I think he knew the difference between his mother’s silence and his grandmother’s anger.

This is not right ,a child shouldn’t suffer because of Us .

I stepped forward instinctively, kneeling to meet him eye to eye. “Kunwarsa… I don’t want to hurt you. If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.”

I turned to Rajmata, already backing away. “It’s alright. I can stay somewhere else in the palace. I didn’t want this to become—”

“You are staying here,” Rajmata cut in smoothly.

Her voice was soft, but the finality in it shut the room like a sealed vault.

She stepped between me and Riyansh and turned back to Alakhnanda, her tone now gentler — not soft, just lower.

“This is a time for grief for you but We all have our roles to play. You are a Rani sa. He is your husband.I know it's not easy for you to accept these things. But this—this public disrespect—will not undo what has already been done , My son - your husband is gone , Anay is your husband now ! Accept it or not but keep it inside this room .”

Alakhnanda’s lips parted, but no words came out.

She looked at me for a moment — the first direct glance since everything — and I saw it.

Not hate.

Not even anger.

Just a wall.

A wall I didn’t have the key to.

Riyansh turned and clung to her side. She stroked his back softly, almost absently.

Rajmata gave me a nod.

“Take some Rest, Rana sa. This is your room too ." Rajmata said again as she left the room with quick steps .

I nodded once, but I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to anymore.

As I looked around the room—at the boy I couldn’t reach, the woman who wouldn’t look at me, and the cold silence settling like dust—

I was here to protect this kingdom.

But no one ever said this kingdom would protect me back.

As Rajmata’s footsteps faded into the quiet hush of the corridor, I was left behind in a room heavy with silence — the kind that pricked skin more sharply than any word.

I glanced toward them — the queen and her son — both seated on the bed now, completely immersed in their little world. Riyansh in his half buttoned shirt , and Alakhnanda gently tucking his buttons , humming a lullaby so low it seemed like it belonged to a time before I even entered their lives.

“I… where should I change?” I asked, my voice low, careful.

Neither of them responded.

They didn’t even look at me.

I don't exist for them.

The threadwork on the walls suddenly felt more welcoming than the people in the room. I stood there for a second longer, waiting for some acknowledgment — a glance, a word, even a flicker of recognition. Nothing came.

So I turned and moved quietly to the adjacent room — the same one Rani sa was using when I entered, perhaps a dressing chamber. I figured if the Rani sa had used it earlier to change, it would be alright if I did the same now.

I reached into my bag, pulled out my soft cotton pajamas, and stepped toward the room.

But before I could take a step further, Riyansh suddenly leapt off the bed and ran ahead of me, standing rigidly at the entrance like a guard protecting his fort.

“Don’t use my Maa sa’s room, you peasant!” he snapped, his small chest rising and falling in furious breaths.

I froze. Not because of the insult — I’d heard worse from my father’s second wife growing up. But because this came from a kid.

From a kid ,I have seen all kind of Children but no one held hate for anything in their eyes ,but Riyansh had .

That too for me .

I am so used to being loved by children that even a glance of hate make me scared .

My throat tightened. My eyes burned, not from humiliation, but from something deeper. Something raw. Something… lost. I pressed my lips together and swallowed the lump that was climbing up my throat, willing myself not to look broken.

“Riyansh.” Alakhnanda’s voice called out softly but firmly.

He turned, and within seconds, she was beside him. She didn’t scold him for what he’d said. She simply wrapped an arm around him and led him back to the bed with the ease of a mother who understood his tantrums — but not my pain.

I stood there, still by the door. She hadn’t told me If I could use the room. But… she hadn’t said no, either.

Our eyes met briefly. Mine were asking, uncertain and fragile. Hers were unreadable.

Then she turned away, tucking Riyansh onto the bed, her fingers stroking his hair with a care so delicate it made my heart ache.

I took that silence as a yes.

The room was dim and quiet as I entered. It had a narrow corridor, with a full-length mirror leaning against the wall and hooks with veils and scarves hanging like silk ghosts. I spotted another door tucked away in the corner — perhaps a walk-in wardrobe or private changing room.

I hung my sherwani carefully on a hanger — not because it was royal fabric, but it was part of my important day.

Changing into my pajamas set felt like shedding a borrowed skin.

When I stepped out, the room beyond had changed.

The bed curtains had been drawn — rich, velvet drapes falling like night over the bed. The soft hush of whispering breaths told me that they were both inside, mother and son, already surrendered to sleep or, at least, pretending to.

And I… was nowhere.

I lingered near the foot of the bed for a moment, unsure where I belonged.

I didn’t dare draw the curtain or lie on the edge. It wasn’t my place.

It would never be.

I quietly stepped out of the room, gently shutting the door behind me. The hallway was bathed in flickering candlelight, casting long shadows across the floor.

I checked the next room, hoping to find a washroom, and thankfully I did. I freshened up quickly — splashing my face with cold water, trying to wash away the sting of rejection — then returned to the main chamber.

The bed was still veiled.

There was no space left on it for me — not physically, not emotionally.

But in the far corner, tucked between the carved window frame and a long curtain, was a small divan.

It wasn’t meant for sleeping. It barely counted as furniture. But it was soft. And unclaimed.

I walked toward it, barefoot and quiet, dragging my folded sherwani with me like a wounded soldier dragging his armor after battle. I laid it carefully over the armrest, then curled up on the Divan.

My knees didn’t quite fit. My back ached from the angle. The cushion was hard.

But for tonight… it was mine.

As I stared at the ornate ceiling, painted with stars and constellations of Rajdavan’s royal past, I whispered to the silence:

“I can never fit here.”

And yet… here I was. A substitute. In a palace of gold. Dreaming of a little boy’s acceptance — and a queen’s glance that meant something more than duty.

Sleep didn’t come easily. But pain did.

My eyes burned with silent tears as I closed them to get some sleep .