Chapter 4: Midnight Confessions
The days after Amartya’s return settled into a comfortable, familiar rhythm. The papers moved on to newer scandals and political dramas. The moonlit photograph of the prince and the princess became a memory, filed away. Tara, watching Amartya closely, saw no lingering distraction. He was his usual self: lobbying Dev for a new Aston Martin, planning a ludicrously lavish weekend in Jaipur with his university friends, complaining with theatrical misery about his upcoming economics tutor.
She allowed herself to believe it had been a flash, a brief fascination with the exotic. Nothing substantive. Her world, which had tilted on its axis, righted itself. She resumed her role as the serene constant in his life, her devotion a service she performed with renewed, quiet gratitude.
This fragile peace held for exactly four days.
It shattered over dinner.
The grand dining room glittered, crystals in the chandeliers refracting light across gilded mirrors. The air was thick with the scent of saffron from the pulao and the tang of tamarind in the fish curry. Laughter echoed off the marble as Amartya recounted, with exaggerated flair, his friends’ latest misadventure with a rogue elephant during a safari.
“It wasn’t rogue, it was just hungry,” Dev corrected, smiling. “And you were in a very sturdy jeep.”
“Bhaiya, the existential fear was real. The jeep felt like tissue paper.”
A soft knock at the door interrupted them. Mihir, Dev’s senior secretary, entered, his expression politely grave. He carried a single envelope on a silver tray. “Your Majesty, a communication from the Emirate of Afghanistan. Marked for His Highness Prince Amartya, with copies for Your Majesties. It came through the official channel, priority.”
The light mood evaporated, replaced by a sudden, sharp focus. Amartya wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, his playful grin fading into something more alert. Tara’s fork, poised over her plate, halted. She set it down silently, her eyes fixed on the heavy cream parchment as Mihir presented it to Amartya.
He broke the seal, extracting a single, crisply folded page. His eyes scanned the elegant script. “It’s from Shaibani Khan,” he said, his voice neutral. “An official invitation. He’s formally inaugurating the National Museum’s new Central Asian Antiquities wing next month. The project his daughter… the project Zahira has been working on. He’s requesting my presence as the guest of honour. Citing the ‘fruitful dialogue’ we began and wanting to ‘cement a cultural partnership.’” He looked up at Dev. “This isn’t a casual follow-up. This is a statement.”
Dev leaned back, steepling his fingers. “He’s leveraging the publicity from your last visit. Showing his people—and his rivals—that he has India’s ear, quite personally. If you go as guest of honour, it sends a powerful signal of endorsement.”
“Do we want to send that signal?” Rukmini asked, her tone pragmatic.
“It’s a museum, Bhabhi, not a military base,” Amartya said, but he was thinking of Zahira’s passionate, trapped face by the fountain. “Cultural diplomacy. Our side always says we want more of it. Here it is.”
“It’s a trap lined with very nice velvet,” Dev murmured, thinking aloud. “But refusing would be an insult, and would cede ground to his opponents who’d claim we are unreliable. You have to go.”
A cold weight settled in Tara’s stomach. It was happening again. The pull, the distraction. That name, spoken in this room. Zahira. It wasn’t over.
“Of course,” Amartya said, folding the letter. A strange, determined look passed over his face, one Tara couldn’t quite decipher. “I’ll go. It’s important.”
The acceptance was a physical blow to Tara. She felt the carefully reconstructed peace of the last few days splinter. She looked down at her plate, the vibrant colors of the food suddenly seeming garish and unappetizing. She concentrated on keeping her breathing even, on maintaining the soft, attentive expression that was her mask. Don’t let them see. Don’t let him see.
The conversation turned logistical—dates, security, appropriate gifts for the inauguration. Tara heard none of it. It was a buzzing in her ears. She was adrift in a room full of people, utterly alone.
Then Rukmini’s voice, warm and practical, cut through the fog.
“You know,” Rukmini said, taking a sip of water. “Amartya, you’re still getting used to the formal side of these things. And Shaibani’s court is… intricate. All those unspoken rules.” She turned her gaze, which was both gentle and perceptive, towards Tara. “Tara, you navigate these social labyrinths so effortlessly. You’ve accompanied us on half a dozen state visits. You know how to ensure Amartya is comfortable, that the small things are handled so he can focus on the big ones.”
Tara’s head lifted slowly.
“Why don’t you go with him?” Rukmini concluded, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world. “As part of the delegation, of course. A familiar face. You care for his well-being more than any protocol officer ever could. It would put our minds at ease.”
The world snapped back into crystalline focus.
Dev nodded, considering. “That’s not a bad idea. Tara’s discreet, and she understands the family’s needs. It would add a layer of… informal oversight. Yes. If you’re willing, Tara?”
All eyes were on her now. Amartya’s were curious, open. “Would you mind, Tara? It’s Kabul, not Cannes. Might be a bit dull for you.”
Dull? To be there, beside him, to insert herself into that narrative, to stand between him and the princess with the classical features? It was everything.
She felt a warmth bloom in her chest, fierce and victorious. This was a mandate, a blessing from the Queen herself. She wasn’t being left behind; she was being deployed. Her role was being affirmed, elevated.
She allowed a modest, hesitant smile to grace her lips, her eyes lowering for a moment before meeting Rukmini’s with heartfelt gratitude. “If you think I could be of service, of course. I’d be happy to go. Anything to help.” Her gaze then shifted to Amartya, soft and devoted. “I’ll make sure you have everything you need. The right clothes, the right gifts. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
“See?” Rukmini said to Dev, satisfied. “Sorted.”
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur for Tara, but now it was a blur of radiant light. The conversation flowed again, plans taking shape. She contributed, her suggestions about packing and climate-appropriate attire practical and insightful. Inside, a reckless joy was unfurling. She would be there. She would be in the room, in the garden, at the museum. The princess with her ancient water channels would have to contend with a modern, immovable fact: her.
Later, walking back to her suite through the hushed palace corridors, the echo of her heels on the stone was a confident, marching rhythm. She replayed Rukmini’s words. ‘You care for his well-being more than any protocol officer ever could.’
They knew. They saw her devotion. They were trusting her with him.
She entered her rooms, closing the heavy door softly behind her. Leaning against it, she let the facade fall, a true, unobserved smile spreading across her face. It was wide and fierce, touching her eyes with a brilliant, possessive light.
Kabul was no longer a threat. It was an arena. And she had just been handed her armor.