Chapter 1: Feeding the Prince
The clink of silver against fine porcelain was a soft percussion beneath the easy laughter. The royal dining room, with its high ceiling adorned with a fresco of some ancient battle, felt almost cozy tonight. Candlelight danced across the polished mahogany, reflecting in the deep red of the wine and in Amartya’s animated eyes.
“So then I told him, if your horse is smarter than you, perhaps you should let it make the trade agreements,” Amartya said, leaning back in his ornate chair. A grin spread across his face as Dev snorted into his water glass.
“You did not,” Rukmini said, shaking her head, but she was smiling. She reached over and straightened the already perfect napkin next to Dev’s plate, a habitual gesture of care.
“I absolutely did. The man was a pretentious windbag. His horse, at least, had the sense to look bored.”
Tara laughed, the sound like clear crystal. She sat to Amartya’s left, the place she’d subtly claimed over many such dinners. “Only you could get away with that, Amy.” Her use of the nickname was casual, intimate. She watched him take a sip of wine, her eyes tracing the line of his throat. She had ensured this particular vintage, a Bordeaux he preferred, was decanted an hour before dinner. Seeing him enjoy it was a small, private victory.
“He gets away with it because everyone mistakes his cheek for boyish charm,” Dev said, his voice warm with brotherly affection. “One day, the charm will wear thin and he’ll have to actually use the brain he was born with.”
“My charm is eternal, Bhaiya. A renewable resource.” Amartya winked, and Tara felt her chest tighten. He was luminescent in this light, all effortless grace and sharp angles. She pushed a silken strand of her own hair behind her ear, conscious of the way her emerald-green dress complemented the room’s opulence. Modern, but regal enough to belong.
A soft knock at the door interrupted the banter. A chamberlain entered, bowing slightly, and approached Dev with a sealed communiqué on a silver tray. “Your Majesty, an urgent dispatch from the Ministry of External Affairs. For Prince Amartya.”
The mood shifted, just a notch. Official business rarely invaded the family dining hour. Dev took it, broke the seal with a thumb, and scanned the contents. A slow smile touched his lips. He passed the single sheet of paper to his brother.
“Well. It seems you’re being summoned, little brother.”
Amartya took the paper, his brows furrowing for a second before his expression cleared into pure delight. “Kabul? Really?”
“A diplomatic courtesy visit. Primarily cultural. They’re inaugurating the new museum and specifically requested the ‘youthful perspective’ of our royal house. They want you.”
“Fantastic!” Amartya’s chair scraped as he sat up taller, the paper fluttering in his hand. “I’ve never been. The food, the history… the rugs!”
Rukmini’s smile was gentle, maternal. “It’s a wonderful opportunity. And a great responsibility. You’ll be representing the family.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “You know, the Emir has a daughter about your age. Princess Zahira. I met her once, years ago. She was a serious little thing, all big, intelligent eyes. I hear she’s grown into a remarkably beautiful and sharp young woman. A doctorate in architectural preservation, of all things. You’ll probably be shepherded around by her.”
The words landed in Tara’s gut like cold stones. Beautiful. Sharp. Intelligent. Princess. Her smile, a practiced and perfect curve, didn’t slip. She focused on slicing a piece of roast pear, the knife gliding through the soft flesh without a sound. Inside, a corrosive heat began to spread.
“Even better!” Amartya exclaimed, oblivious. “A knowledgeable guide. Beats some stuffy old minister droning on about pottery shards.” He was already somewhere else, his mind racing ahead to bazaars and mountain passes.
“Don’t get too excited,” Dev said, though his tone was fond. “It’s work. Public appearances, photo calls, impeccably polite small talk. No telling the Emir’s advisors their horses are smarter.”
“I make no promises.”
Tara took a slow sip of wine, letting the dry liquid wash over her tongue. She could feel the phantom weight of Rukmini’s description hanging in the air. A remarkably beautiful young woman. She set the glass down, the stem cool between her fingers. “It sounds like a perfect assignment for you, Amy,” she said, her voice smooth as honey. “You have a way of making protocol feel… personal.” It was the right thing to say, supportive and flattering. It hid the frantic, scrambling thing in her chest.
She watched him, this boy-prince she had woven into the very fabric of her desires. He was talking about Afghan ski resorts now, of all things, his hands sketching shapes in the air. He belonged to this room, to this family, to this life of effortless privilege. And, in the careful, secret chambers of her heart, he belonged to her. She had curated his comfort, anticipated his needs, basked in the glow of his proximity for years. She was the constant. The understanding friend.
This Princess Zahira was an abstract, a portrait on a distant wall. But the idea of her—educated, royal, approved—stung like a physical slap. The thought of Amartya in a foreign palace, walking alongside some elegant, suitable princess, smiling at her, perhaps being impressed by her…
Her knuckles were white where she gripped her fork. She forced them to relax.
“When do I leave?” Amartya asked, his eyes alight with the prospect of adventure.
“End of the week,” Dev said. “They’ll send a full briefing tomorrow. Rukmini’s right. It’s a real responsibility. But also a real vote of confidence in you.”
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur for Tara. The conversation flowed around her—logistics, security, the right wardrobe for the climate. She contributed when required, her comments helpful, poised. She suggested his favorite tailor for the traditional formalwear he’d need. She recommended a book on Kabul’s modern art scene she’d ‘just happened’ to read. Every word was a thread meant to bind him closer, even as the discussion was pulling him thousands of miles away.
Finally, Dev and Rukmini rose, signaling the end of the meal. Dev clapped a hand on Amartya’s shoulder. “Come to my study later. We’ll talk logistics without boring the ladies.”
As they drifted out, Rukmini linking her arm with Dev’s, Tara found herself alone with Amartya for a moment in the cavernous, candle-lit room. He was staring out the tall window at the darkened gardens, a faint, excited smile still playing on his lips.
“It’ll be incredible, Tara,” he said, not turning.
“I’m sure it will,” she said, moving to stand beside him. She didn’t touch him. She just let her presence be felt. “Just remember to pack your own coffee blend. The palace there will only have that bitter local stuff.”
He laughed, finally looking at her. “See? You always think of the essential things.”
He wandered out after his brother, already humming a tune, a spring in his step. Tara remained by the window. The reflection staring back at her was flawless—styled hair, impeccable makeup, a figure hugged by designer silk. But beneath the surface, a cold, familiar fury was settling into her bones, solid and sharp.
He was walking away, bright-eyed, toward a princess. And the carefully constructed world Tara lived in, the world that orbited him, tilted on its axis. She watched his shadow disappear down the corridor.
The candles guttered, casting long, dancing shadows that looked, for a moment, like grasping hands.