Page 42 of Scars and Crowns

It isn't. I know it the moment Verma clears his throat. He's the oldest after Rathore, which means if he's opening the discussion, the others have already decided he'll say what they all want to say. "Hukum . . . " His tone is careful. Too careful.

"We understand that the marriage has taken place." He pauses. "It is legal, official, and naturally we have no intention of questioning that decision."

I don't interrupt. He takes my silence as permission to continue. "However . . . " There it is. " . . . there are concerns." He glances briefly around the table before looking back at me. "Serious concerns."

I say nothing. "The Maharani's background." The room grows noticeably quieter.

Rathore speaks next. His voice carries none of Verma's hesitation. "She once belonged to the staff quarters." He folds his hands neatly together. "She is the daughter of a housekeeper." Another pause. "We all know you shared . . . a close friendship during your younger years."

Friendship.

I almost smile.

Almost.

"But affection alone," he continues gently, "does not necessarily make someone suitable to become Maharani." The word suitable hangs unpleasantly in the air. Before I can answer, Dixit joins in.

Young.

Ambitious.

Still trying far too hard to impress everyone else in the room. "There is also the matter of the child." He clears his throat. "A daughter." His discomfort is obvious. "No father listed anywhere." He shifts in his chair before forcing himself onward. "People have begun talking." Another councillor nods. "It affects the image of the royal family." Someone else quietly adds—"The optics are . . . unfortunate." Then another. "And naturally questions will arise."

One by one . . . They all speak. Different voices. Different wording. The same meaning.

Background.

Staff quarters.

Single mother.

Unknown father.

Reputation.

Optics.

Suitability.

Each sentence is polished. Measured. Respectful on the surface. Ugly underneath. I don't interrupt a single one of them. I let every word settle into the room. I let every opinion reveal itself completely. Because I've learnt something over the years. People often believe they're being reasonable simply because they're speaking politely. They're wrong. There is nothing reasonable about prejudice dressed in expensive vocabulary. My face remains perfectly still. Inside . . . something grows very quiet. Very cold. The kind of cold that arrives before a storm.

Because beneath all those carefully chosen words . . . I hear what they're actually saying. That she isn't good enough. That surviving hardship somehow diminished her. That raising a daughter alone should be held against her instead of admired. That the woman who fought through life without asking anyone to rescue her . . . is somehow unworthy of standing beside me. The thought settles heavily beneath my ribs.

Images arrive uninvited. Anamika standing in my study for the first time. A silver tray trembling ever so slightly in her hands. Calling me sir because she needed distance where neither of us wanted it. Sara looking up at me with complete certainty.

"Mumma is happy."

"She has me."

As though love alone could solve every problem.

Maybe . . . Maybe children understand life better than adults ever do. Then Anamika again. The careful smile she's worn ever since coming back. The way it always arrives just a little too late. As though happiness has become something she consciously chooses instead of something she naturally feels.

Someone taught her to smile like that. Someone taught her to expect disappointment. The thought fills me with something dangerously close to rage. None of the men sitting around this table know what she's survived. None of them know the strength it took to raise a child completely alone. None of them know what it cost her pride to walk back into this palace wearing a staff uniform after leaving with dreams bigger than these walls.

And yet . . . here they are. Passing judgement from comfortable chairs. I look slowly around the room. One face after another. Every man falls silent beneath the weight of it.

The silence stretches. Long enough for discomfort to begin settling in.