Page 43 of Scars and Crowns

Verma lowers his eyes first. Dixit shifts in his seat. Someone quietly closes a file. Only then do I speak.

"My wife's name . . . " My voice remains calm. Steady. " . . . is Anamika Jadeja."

No one moves.

I hold every gaze in turn before continuing. "From this moment onward . . . " I pause deliberately. "Any discussion regarding her background . . . " I clench my jaw, "...her daughter or her past...whether inside this chamber or outside it will be treated as a direct insult to this royal house."

The words leave evenly. Without anger. Without raised volume. They don't need either. Authority has never belonged to the loudest voice. It belongs to the man who has already made his decision. "I strongly suggest," I say quietly, "that each of you remembers that."

Silence.

Complete silence.

Verma studies the papers in front of him with remarkable concentration. Dixit's face has drained of colour. Rathore watches me for another second before giving the smallest nod.

Not agreement.

Not quite.

Understanding.

He knows exactly where the line now stands. And unlike the others . . . He is wise enough not to test it. I pull the treasury file toward me. The familiar movement is enough. Everyone understands. The discussion is over.

"Quarterly allocations." My pen clicks open. "We'll begin with infrastructure." The meeting continues exactly as every council meeting always has.

Budgets. Renovation proposals. Revenue forecasts. Tourism figures. Textile exports.

Voices rise and fall around me. Notes are taken. Approvals are signed. Outwardly...Nothing has changed. Inside . . . everything has. Because for the first time . . . in the one room where my words carry the greatest weight . . . I finally said aloud what should never have needed saying. Her worth isn't measured by where she came from. Or by the absence of a man's name beside her daughter's. Or by whispers from people who've never survived a fraction of what she has. The title of Maharani doesn't elevate Anamika. If anything . . . Anamika gives dignity to the title.

She walked through years that would've broken most people. She raised an extraordinary little girl with nothing but determination and love. She returned to the very place she'd once fought so hard to leave . . .Not because she failed. Because life cornered her. And even then . . . She walked back with her head held high.

I've never admired anyone more. She has never once asked me to defend her.

In fact . . . If she knew this conversation had happened, she'd probably tell me she didn't need anyone fighting her battles. That's who she is. She has always believed she should carry everything herself. I used to respect that from a distance.

I still do.

But she's my wife now. And there are burdens she no longer has to carry alone. Respecting her strength does not mean standing by while people mistake it for permission to disrespect her.

I made myself a promise years ago. Long before she came back. Long before this marriage. If life ever gave me another chance to stand beside her . . . I wouldn't waste it.

Today . . . That promise looked like a room full of powerful men learning exactly how precious her name is. And if anyone ever forgets it . . . They'll only have to be reminded once.

FRIENDS

ANAMIKA

Sara starts school tomorrow. It should've been one of those happy milestones every mother dreams about.

Instead, I've spent the last hour sitting at the edge of the bed with a notebook balanced on my lap, adding and subtracting the same numbers over and over again, as though stubbornness alone might somehow change arithmetic.

It doesn't.

The total refuses to move. The admission advance had already been paid last week with the salary advance I received from the palace kitchen. At the time, I'd carefully worked everything out. The remaining school fees would come from the month's wages. It wasn't much, but it would've been enough.

That plan no longer exists. Neither do those wages. The day after the wedding, the head maid had taken me aside with genuine kindness and quietly explained that the Maharani of Devgarh wasn't expected to continue working kitchen shifts.

She'd meant well. I knew that. But all I'd heard was the sound of my carefully balanced plans collapsing. I close my notebook and let it rest beside me. I already know the solution.