Chapter 4: The Lioness Hunts
A month in Delhi was a velvet glove over iron routine. The palace wasn’t just a home; it was a living, breathing machine of state. Amartya slid back into his groove easily—morning studies, afternoon sessions with ministers-in-training, polo on weekends. The smoggy warmth and familiar chaos of the city were a comfort. The strange, charged air of Baghdad, the unsettling scent of sandalwood and roses that had haunted his dream on the jet, was filed away in a drawer marked ‘Intense Trip.’
It had been a good trip. That’s what he told himself. He’d done well.
Breakfasts were the family’s anchor. In a sun-drenched alcove overlooking the Mughal gardens, with the scent of cardamom-laced chai and fresh parathas, they were just Dev, Rukmini, and Amartya.
“Infrastructure committee this afternoon?” Amartya asked, tearing a flaky piece of paratha and scooping up some achar.
Dev, scrolling a tablet balanced against the honey jar, grunted. “Three hours of arguing about metro line extensions. Thrilling. You have equestrian drills, right?”
“At eleven. Zaharia National Stud sent two new stallions as a… diplomatic gift?Personal gift? The note was unclear.” Amartya shrugged, a slight frown appearing.
Rukmini, pouring more tea, didn't look up, but her hand was perfectly steady. “A gracious gesture. Their stock is impeccable.”
The invitation arrived a week later.
It was formal, heavy cream cardstock embossed with the seal of Oman. The Circle of Twenty, the informal gathering of Gulf nations and their key partners, had its annual retreat in Muscat. Discussions on economic synergies, cultural exchange, and, unofficially, a lot of falconry and lavish dinners.
Dev tossed it onto the breakfast table with a soft thud. “Muscat. Four days.”
Rukmini picked it up, her eyes scanning the details. “They’ve scheduled it during the agricultural summit in Pune. And the state visit from Denmark.”
“Conflicting diaries,” Dev said, his voice tight. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But a royal presence from our side is expected. Mandatory, really. Fahad would see an empty seat as a slight.”
A silence settled, thick with unspoken calculations. Amartya felt it, a sudden change in atmospheric pressure. He looked between them. “Send Minister Rathore. He loves these things. Gets to wear sunglasses all day.”
Dev shook his head. “Not senior enough. It has to be family. It has to be… visible.”
Another beat of silence. Amartya put down his spoon. “Oh.”
Rukmini finally looked up from the invitation, her gaze meeting Dev’s across the table. A whole conversation passed in that look: worry, resignation, a silent weighing of risks. Amartya saw it. He saw the slight tightening around Dev’s eyes, the almost imperceptible way Rukmini’s thumb stroked the edge of the card.
“What is it?” he asked, his cheerful tone flattening.
“Nothing,” Dev said, too quickly.
“It’s not nothing. You two just had a whole talk without words. Is Oman unstable right now? Security issue?” His mind raced to the practical.
“No, no. Security is fine. The Sultan is a good host.” Rukmini’s voice was soothing, but the undercurrent was still there. A thread of tension.
“Then what?”
Dev leaned back, exhaling heavily. He clasped his hands on the table. “Zahira will be there.”
The name landed in the sunny room like a sudden shadow. Amartya blinked. The scent of roses, the grip on his wrist, the intensity of her gaze in the stable—it all rushed back, not as a memory, but as a physical echo. He felt a flush creep up his neck, unrelated to the morning sun.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “So?”
“So… her interest in you last time was… marked.” Rukmini chose the word carefully.
Amartya laughed, a short, nervous sound. “Marked?She was friendly. She was being hospitable. I was the junior member of the delegation.”
“Amartya.” Dev’s voice was low, serious. “We’re not blind. The way she was with you… it wasn’t normal protocol. It made us… uncomfortable.”
The confession stunned him. They had seen it. They had named it, privately. This thing he’d tried to dismiss as imagination, as his own misreading, had been real enough for them to notice and discuss. A wave of embarrassment washed over him, hot and prickling.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His voice was quiet.
“Because it was harmless,” Rukmini interjected, reaching across to touch his hand. Her fingers were cool. “It was an observation, not an accusation. We thought it was a fleeting thing, a queen charmed by a young prince’s manners. We decided to let it fade.”
“But now, with this invitation…” Dev gestured to the card. “Putting you in that context again, a more informal setting, just you as our representative… It feels like walking you into a situation.”
“A situation?” Amartya’s embarrassment began to curdle into something else—frustration, a faint defiance. “What, is she going to leap across the negotiation table? You make it sound like she’s a threat.” He stood up, pushing his chair back. “I’m not a child you need to shield from an awkward social interaction.”
“It’s not about that,” Dev said, standing as well, his own frustration showing. “It’s about power dynamics. It’s about her being a head of state with a… a focused interest, and you being nineteen, bhai. It’s about the potential for misunderstanding, for rumors, for complications we don’t need.”
“So you don’t trust me to handle it.” The words hung in the air, sharp.
“We trust you with our lives,” Rukmini said sharply, cutting through the tension. “This isn’t about trust in you. It’s about not trusting the situation. Or her intentions, which are entirely opaque. But…”
She looked at Dev, her shoulders slumping slightly in surrender. “But we have no choice. The summit, the Danes… we cannot go. And India must be represented at the C20. By family.”
A heavy quiet filled the alcove. The cheerful sounds of the garden birds outside felt mocking.
“So I go,” Amartya stated.
Dev nodded, the fight gone out of him, replaced by weary concern. “You go. You’re competent, you’re charming. Do the job. Attend the sessions, smile for the photos, make the right noises about trade corridors.”
“And Zahira?” Amartya asked, his jaw tight.
“Be polite.Be formal. Do not be alone with her. Not for a minute.” Dev’s eyes held his, deadly serious. “If she seeks you out, keep it public. Have an aide with you at all times. Your new head of security, Sameer—stick to him like glue. You decline any private invitations. You plead prior commitments, fatigue, anything. Understood?”
They were treating it like a security briefing. Like she was a hostile asset. The whole thing felt absurd, demeaning. Yet, beneath his irritation, a strange, illicit thrill sparked. It was the thrill of being seen as dangerous, of having a secret to keep. The memory of her smile, so different from her official one, flashed before him.
“Understood,” he said, his voice neutral.
Rukmini walked over to him, cupping his face in her hands. Her eyes were full of a deep, protective love. “Be smart, beta. This world… it eats charming boys for breakfast. Come home to us.”
He nodded, leaning into her touch briefly before pulling away. The invitation lay on the table between them, an innocent piece of paper that now felt like a threshold.
As he left the alcove to head to the stables, the instructions circled in his head.Be formal. Don’t be alone. But another part of him, a part he refused to acknowledge, was already cataloguing the feel of silk against his wrist, the low timbre of her laugh, and the exhilarating, terrifying feeling of being the sole focus of a queen’s absolute attention.