She said nothing for three days.
Not a word to Aryan. Not a whisper to her father. Not even a breath of speculation to the palace press.
But behind closed doors-*Anaya moved*.
She summoned lawyers.
She contacted private archivists, imperial historians, DNA analysts.
She requested transcripts from the royal lineage office under a legal clause only those tied to the throne could invoke.
And one by one, the records came.
And *confirmed* everything.
She was born of imperial blood.
Not direct succession. But close enough. Enough to *claim*.
Enough to *wield*.
---
The first public shift was subtle.
She returned to court functions in shades of cream, gold, and deep burgundy-colors once reserved for imperial bloodlines.
She began addressing foreign dignitaries *alone*, without her husband or father flanking her.
And when she delivered a speech at the National Cultural Gala in Lucknow, her voice rang with calm authority:
> "Power is not inherited. It is not bestowed.
> It is *recognized.*"
The room had gone silent.
The cameras, not.
The clip trended for six days.
---
Aryan watched it all from the sidelines.
Not because he wasn't part of her world-but because, for the first time, she was stepping into a place *he could not follow*.
She wasn't just his wife anymore.
She was something more.
And the truth-the one he tried to ignore-was becoming harder to deny.
He had married a *queen in the making*.
And if he wasn't careful...
She might outgrow him.
---
One evening, as she stood before the mirror in a deep red saree and a golden kamarbandh that once belonged to the Empress herself, Aryan entered their room and leaned against the door.
"You're changing."
She didn't turn. "I'm becoming."
He stepped closer. "And where does that leave me?"
Anaya met his reflection in the mirror.
"Exactly where you've always been," she said. "Beside me. Or in my way."
The air thickened between them.
But then she turned, and her expression softened-just enough.
"I want you beside me, Aryan. But I will not shrink to keep you there."
He stared at her.
And something in him *yielded*.
Not submission. Not fear.
*Respect.*
"Then I'll grow," he said.
And he kissed her-not out of hunger, but alignment.
As if two rulers had finally signed a treaty written in flesh.