Chapter 10: Tara's fingers froze in the soapy water as they grazed the purple bruise on Amartya's shoulder - Zahira's unmistakable claim. Without warning, she yanked him from the bath by his hair, her nails drawing blood down his back as she mounted him violently on the marble floor, growling 'Mine' with each brutal thrust.
The private jet touched down in Delhi just after dawn. Amartya had spent the five-hour flight in a vacuum, staring at the clouds, the ghost of Zahira’s teeth still aching in his shoulder. He’d changed into a fresh kurta, hoping the crisp white linen would armor him. It felt like a costume.
The terminal for heads of state was eerily empty. No Bhaiya. No Bhabhi. No security detail in their familiar, relaxed formation. Just two new, stern-faced officers from the Royal Guard, their expressions carved from stone.
“Your Highness,” one said, not bowing. “The King commands your immediate presence in your suite.”
“My suite? He’s there?”
“The King’s orders were specific. Please come with us.”
The drive was silent. The usual banter with the driver, the idle chatter about cricket, was absent. The palace grounds, blooming with monsoon flowers, looked like a painted backdrop. Nothing felt real.
The doors to his royal suite were open. Inside, it was not just Dev and Rukmini.
Dev stood at the center of the room, his back to the panoramic windows. He wasn’t in royal dress. He wore a simple, black linen shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hands were clenched at his sides. Rukmini stood slightly to the side, her face pale, one hand pressed to her stomach. And in the corner, near the bookshelf, stood Tara. She was impeccably dressed, but her eyes were red-rimmed, wide with a stunned devastation.
“Bhaiya?” Amartya’s voice was too loud in the quiet. “What’s going on?”
Dev didn’t speak. He just stared. The look in his eyes wasn’t anger. It was a cold, terrible disappointment that was infinitely worse.
“Close the doors,” Dev said, his voice low.
The guards shut them from the outside, leaving the four of them alone in the opulent space.
“Show me your shoulder,” Dev said.
A block of ice formed in Amartya’s gut. “What?”
“Your right shoulder. Show it to me. Now.”
The command brooked no argument. With trembling fingers, Amartya unbuttoned the top of his kurta and pulled the fabric aside. The bruise was livid in the morning light—a perfect, dark crescent of purple and blue against his skin.
From the corner, Tara made a small, wounded sound, like a kicked animal.
Rukmini closed her eyes.
Dev’s jaw worked. He took a slow step forward. “And what is that?”
“It’s… it’s nothing. I fell—”
The first slap exploded across his cheek.
It wasn’t a reprimand. It was violence. Dev’s open palm connected with a crack that echoed off the marble. Amartya’s head snapped sideways, his vision flashing white. A searing heat bloomed on his face.
“You fell onto Princess Zahira’s teeth, did you?” Dev’s voice was a quiet, controlled tremor. “While you were fucking her in her father’s palace?”
“Bhaiya, please—” Rukmini started, taking a step forward.
“Stay out of this, Ruku!” Dev roared, never taking his eyes off his brother. The fury broke then, flooding the room. “While you were representing this family? This nation? You put your dick in a geopolitical trap so obvious a child could see it!”
“It wasn’t like that!” Amartya cried, the sting of the slap bringing tears to his eyes. “She came to me, I didn’t—"
The second slap came from the other side, harder. His lip split. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
“You think that matters?” Dev seized the front of his kurta, pulling him close. Their faces were inches apart. Amartya could see the network of furious veins at his brother’s temple. “You think ‘she came to me’ is a defense? You are not a boy in a college dorm! You are a Prince of India! Every move is photographed, every whisper recorded! And you gave them a pornography!”
He shoved Amartya backwards. He stumbled over a low table, crashing to the floor amidst scattered art books. He looked up, blood dripping from his chin onto the silk carpet.
Tara was crying silently, her hands over her mouth.
“Shaibani Khan’s office contacted the External Affairs Ministry at four this morning,” Dev said, pacing now, a caged tiger. “They have a portfolio. Photos of you two laughing in the garden. Time-stamped security footage of her entering your wing. And a medical report from his personal physician, confirming his daughter’s… condition.” He stopped, looking down at Amartya with utter contempt. “She is likely pregnant, you phenomenal fool. And now her father owns you. He owns a piece of our sovereignty. All because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”
The world dropped out from under Amartya. Pregnant. The word echoed, meaningless and then horrifying. Zahira’s calculating eyes flashed in his memory. This is the deal.
“No,” he whispered, scrambling to his knees. “Bhaiya, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”
“What didn’t you know? That sex makes babies? That hostile regimes use honey traps?” Dev’s laughter was a bitter, ugly thing. “We protected you from everything. From duty, from consequence, from reality. And this is the result. You are a spoiled, stupid liability.”
He moved again, faster than Amartya could react. He hauled him up by his arm and struck him again, a backhand that rattled his teeth. Then again. A relentless, rhythmic punishment. Slap after slap, each impact a burst of light and shame.
“Dev, stop! You’ll kill him!” Rukmini was pulling at his arm, but he shook her off.
“He’s already dead! The brother I knew is dead! This is just a shell!”
The blows kept coming. Amartya stopped trying to block them. He absorbed each one, the physical pain a welcome anchor from the dissolving horror inside. He deserved it. He was a pet. A stupid, well-loved pet who’d pissed on the throne.
Finally, Rukmini threw herself between them, shoving Dev back with surprising force. “ENOUGH! Look at him!”
Amartya knelt on the floor, breathing in ragged, wet gasps. His face was a throbbing, swollen mask. Blood and slimy saliva dripped from his chin. His kurta was torn.
Dev stood over him, chest heaving, his own hand red and swollen.
For a long minute, the only sound was Amartya’s choked breathing and Tara’s silent weeping.
“Get up,” Dev said, his voice now hollow, exhausted.
Amartya couldn’t.
“Get. Up.”
Using the table, Amartya pulled himself to his feet. He wavered, dizzy.
“You are relieved of all duty. All protocol. All privileges. You will not represent this family in any capacity, ever again.” Dev spoke like a judge passing a life sentence. “Your accounts are frozen. Your passports are revoked. Your friends, your contacts—consider them gone. You will move to the old servants’ quarters in the north wing tonight. You will have no staff. No security. You will not approach the royal family. You will not contact Tara or Rukmini.”
“Dev, the north wing is—” Rukmini began, horrified.
“It is what he has earned.” Dev cut her off, his gaze still locked on his broken brother. “You will live there, and you will think about what your carelessness has cost. The respect you squandered. The trust you shattered. The position you betrayed.”
Amartya tried to speak, but his throat was sealed shut by shame.
“Get him out of my sight,” Dev said to the guards who entered at some unseen signal. “Take him to the north wing. Now.”
The two stone-faced officers took his arms. They didn’t handle him roughly, but their grip was impersonal, final. As they led him towards the door, he passed Tara.
Her tears had stopped. Her face was blotchy, shattered. But as their eyes met, he saw it—beneath the devastation, a flicker of something else. A furious, possessive calculation. She looked at his bruised face not just with pity, but with a terrifying sort of inventory. As if assessing the damage to her most prized belonging.
He was led through the palace’s grand, familiar corridors for the last time. Past smiling portraits of his ancestors, past rooms filled with laughter and light from his childhood. The staff they passed averted their eyes, pretending not to see their prince being marched like a prisoner.
The north wing was a separate, older building connected by a long, covered walkway. It was where auxiliary staff had once lived. It was clean, but it was stark. The room they put him in was small, with a single narrow window overlooking a neglected courtyard. The walls were painted a dull, peeling cream. There was a cot, a desk, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The air smelled of dust and disinfectant.
The door shut. A key turned in the lock from the outside.
He stood in the center of the silent, dim room. The adrenaline bled away, leaving a vast, hollow ache. He touched his swollen face, wincing. He could still feel the exact imprint of his brother’s hand.
He sank onto the hard cot, the thin mattress offering no comfort. The weight of it all collapsed onto him. Zahira’s scheme. The possible child. The national scandal. His brother’s hatred. The lifelong love and protection, vanished in a single morning.
He was no one. He had nothing. Not even his own name held value anymore.
He lay down on his side, curling into himself, a silent wreck. The guilt was a physical stone on his chest. But beneath it, sharper and more surprising, was a spike of bitter disbelief.
He hit me.
The brother who taught him to ride a bike. Who covered for him with their strict father. Who smiled with unshakeable pride at every insignificant accomplishment.
He really wanted to hurt me.
In the heavy silence of his new prison, that truth hurt more than any slap.