Chapter 7: The Real Test

But when I lifted the red bridal veil, I realised I was wrong.

My heart skipped a beat. This was not what I expected—not at all.

Completely wrong. Catastrophically wrong.

I felt a cold sweat break out on my neck, the kind that comes when you realise you’ve misplaced your wallet during Diwali shopping.

Such a beautiful girl—oval face, almond eyes, arched brows, a faint dimple when she smiles.

She glowed in the lamplight, beauty delicate yet striking—a rose among thorns.

But her actions were swift and ruthless, with the air of someone who’s seen it all.

There was steel in her gaze, words measured and sharp. Every gesture precise, each movement calculated. The staff quickly learned not to cross her.

Not long after entering the household, she quickly dismissed Shanti Ma, who had served me since childhood.

Shanti Ma wept outside my room, clutching her faded shawl, as my wife calmly issued orders for her removal. The other maids watched in shocked silence.

I still remember when we went to thank the Maharaja, the Maharani asked pointedly:

Her question was sharp as her gold bangles, echoing through the marble hall.

“Princess Arjun, what did Shanti Ma do wrong to be sent back to the palace?”

The tension was thick enough to slice with a butter knife. My wife’s hands trembled, eyes darted to the floor.

My wife’s face turned red, voice soft and trembling:

She stammered, “Shanti Ma… she ate too many sweets and got a toothache. When the doctor came, he dug out many, many gold teeth from her mouth. Mother, I was so frightened, please help me!”

Her words nearly drove the Maharani mad with rage.

The Maharani’s lips pressed into a thin line, knuckles whitening around her pearl-studded fan. The staff held their breath.

All palace rewards are recorded; for Shanti Ma to hoard so much gold, if it wasn’t from the Maharani, then from whom?

The record-keeper’s face went pale. Whispers buzzed—was this a plot? Who else was involved?

Turned out her own trusted aide had long since been bought off by Rani Meera.

The news sent shockwaves through the harem. Loyalties were questioned, alliances exposed. My wife had uncovered a secret no one dared mention.

Such betrayal was intolerable.

The Maharani’s fury was legendary, the sort that made seasoned courtiers shiver.

Shanti Ma tried to plead her case, but the Maharani wouldn’t listen—she ordered her thrown out of the palace on the spot.

Her cries echoed down the corridors, but no one dared intervene. Justice in the palace is swift and unforgiving.

While giving the order, she gently comforted my wife:

The Maharani’s tone softened as she pulled my wife close. “Beta, don’t be afraid. If anything happens, come to the palace and tell Mother. Mother will take care of you.”

I was sweating buckets.

I could feel my kurta sticking to my back, the heat of palace politics suddenly all too real. I realised I was out of my depth.

Women are masters of acting—saying the sharpest things in the gentlest voice.

I watched, wide-eyed, as barbs were traded with a smile, as old wounds were reopened under the pretext of kindness. The palace, I understood, was never as peaceful as it looked.

Where was the promised gentleness, quietness, and shyness?

I searched for the gentle bride I’d imagined—found instead a tigress, her claws hidden beneath velvet paws.

Hai Ram.

I closed my eyes, muttered a quick Hanuman Chalisa under my breath, and hoped the gods were listening. The gods alone know what lies ahead.

It’s not me loving my wife—it’s me begging my wife to love me.

I smiled at her, hoping for a spark of kindness. But, as always, the palace teaches its own lessons. As the palace doors closed behind us, I realised—sometimes, the biggest battles are fought in silence, and even a useless prince has to find his own courage.