Chapter 7: Bitter Tea and Fading Trust

The barrage’s appearance, plus the Maharani’s pointed words, left me anxious for days. My head ached as if splitting. Arjun heard the news and brought me a cup of tulsi tea. We hadn’t seen each other for a whole month. Even though I’d already confirmed that Arjun’s relationship with the Maharani was clean and my family was safe, my first reaction on seeing Arjun was not joy, but wariness. His care for me felt like a knife hanging over my head. If the Maharani was ever displeased, that knife would fall, using my family’s blood to nourish their deep love. Noticing my caution, he smiled helplessly.

Arjun’s smile was soft, almost sad, as if he knew exactly what tormented me. He set the brass tumbler on my table with the same care he once reserved for my anklets or hairpins, then sat back on his heels, waiting.

The steam curled up, carrying the sharp, peppery scent of tulsi—just like the tea Dadi made when fevers ran high. “This servant is here to do acupressure for you.”

Arjun had a certain vigour, and was clever and quick-witted. Wherever he went, he met benefactors willing to help him. Even if some palace vaidya secretly taught him medicine, I wasn’t surprised.

“Head ailments hurt the body. Don’t use your health to quarrel with this servant. It’s not worth it,” he said.

His familiar concern made me dazed.

The weight of the day seemed to melt away under his gaze. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to trust him fully, to lean into his care without fear.

The setting sun was half-tilted. Arjun, dressed in green, held the needle calmly. His brows and eyes were so gentle. A few strands of black hair brushed lightly against the hollow of my neck, bringing a dense itch. He really put effort into me. But, why bother? I sneered.

Even as his hands worked with practiced ease, resentment bubbled up. Was all this tenderness just another act, another way to keep me silent?

With complicated and unwilling feelings, my palm climbed up along his black hair, lightly landing on his high nose bridge. They say a high nose means that part is big too. A gentle tease.

Arjun’s breathing grew rapid at my touch, the corners of his eyes flushed. Seeing his blushing cheeks, I suddenly felt a bit lost. They say he is the Maharani’s fated hero. But the person before me is still clearly the little attendant who liked me so much. What if those bizarre words were just sowing discord?

But in the blink of an eye, the barrage boiled over again:

[No matter how much the supporting girl touches, the male lead will never betray the Maharani.]

[Don’t be fooled by the male lead’s red face—he’s just pretending to be pure. He actually hates her inside.]

[When will the supporting girl leave? So annoying. The male lead stayed up late for the Maharani’s sleep, now he has dark circles. Heartbreaking.]

My mood was instantly ruined. I cupped Arjun’s face and examined him closely—there really were faint dark circles under his eyes. I irritably withdrew my hand, an indescribable frustration blocking my heart. I couldn’t breathe.

“Forget it, I don’t want acupressure. You can go.”

Arjun was stunned. A trace of sadness flashed in his eyes. But he still obediently withdrew the needles and left.

After a few steps, he hurried back to remind me: “The flower tea on the table can cool your mind and soothe the nerves. Remember to drink it.”

I watched his back retreat, my heart aching with regret I dared not voice. The little acts of care—the tea, the quiet reminders—remained even when everything else fell apart.

I pursed my lips, propped my chin, and was lost in thought for a long time. Just now, I did notice Arjun’s reddened eye rims. He was about to cry. For me. Thinking of this, I still drank the now-cold tulsi tea in one gulp. And quickly ran out.

The tea was bitter but refreshing, the kind Mummy would brew when the world felt too heavy. I set the cup down with a sigh, then, heart pounding, darted out into the corridor—chasing answers I wasn’t sure I wanted.