Letter For Alliance
VIHAAN
I’ve read the letter twice already. Every line is etched into my mind, heavy like the gold seal pressed into the paper. The office smells faintly of sandalwood and old leather, the way it always does—regal, controlled, suffocating at times. Bhai-sa sits at his mahogany desk, back straight, face carved in that calm, unreadable expression only he can manage. He reads the letter out loud anyway, his voice steady as if the words don’t carry the weight of an entire kingdom’s politics.
Beside me, Veeraj lounges in the chair like it’s his living room and not the heart of Shekawat power. His long legs are stretched out, one arm slung lazily across the armrest, but I know him well enough to see the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
When Bhai-sa finishes, the room falls into silence, broken only by the soft tick of the antique clock behind him.
Proposal for the marriage of Rajkumar Vihaan Singh Shekawat to Princess of Sisodiya.
An alliance of families. A merging of power. A joining of hands.
For a moment, silence lingers like an unwelcome guest. My mind starts piecing through the layers behind this gesture, because nothing in our world comes without reason. And Digvijay—he’s many things, but naive isn’t one of them.
“Smart move,” I murmur, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “His father’s barely been gone a year. Their funds are drying up, and their expansion into the hospitality sector is bleeding them. A rivalry with us will only make that worse. So, of course, he wants an alliance.”
I pause, eyes narrowing as memories of last year surface—the sting of betrayal still sharp around the edges. “But I don’t trust him. Not after the stunt he tried to pull.”
Bhai-sa hums, a low sound that carries agreement. “You’re right. He cannot be trusted after last year.”
I clench my jaw, the details flashing like headlines in my mind. Digvijay’s grand attempt to undercut us during the peak tourist season—bribing our vendors, poaching our staff, even spreading whispers about safety hazards in our heritage properties. It took me weeks of damage control, endless meetings, and one hell of a PR campaign to flip the narrative back in our favor. And when that wasn’t enough, they tried to cut a deal with foreign investors—behind our backs—to dominate the luxury heritage market in Rajasthan.
He failed. Of course, he failed. You don’t outplay a Shekawat in their own game. But that doesn’t erase the attempt. Doesn’t erase the fact that Digvijay Sisodiya would rather burn bridges than admit defeat.
“So we can’t trust him,” I say again, firmer this time.
“No,” Bhai-sa agrees, voice like tempered steel. “But ignoring this would be a mistake, too.”
“Exactly,” Veeraj finally speaks, his tone pragmatic. “It’s better we show willingness, at least. A façade of harmony benefits us. Keeps the media singing ballads of unity instead of speculating about royal feuds.”
I glance at him, conceding with a nod. “You’re not wrong. The media will eat this up. A grand alliance between two of Rajasthan’s oldest royal houses—it’s the kind of headline that writes itself.”
Bhai-sa exhales slowly, setting the letter down with deliberate care. “Vihaan,” he says, and something in his tone makes me sit straighter. His gaze meets mine, steady, weighted with the kind of authority that has nothing to do with crowns and everything to do with blood. “You might be forgetting this—neither I, nor Veeraj, nor the media has a say in this matter.”
The room stills. I know what’s coming even before he speaks the next words.
“It’s your call,” Bhai sa says. “You will be the one marrying her. It’s important you choose wisely. She will be your life partner, after all.”
Life partner. The words taste foreign on my tongue.
For a moment, I can’t speak. My throat feels tight, like all the air has been pulled from the room. It’s strange—how easily people toss that phrase around, as if it’s just another checkbox in a royal duty list. But for me… it’s never been just that.
Because if I’m honest—and God, when was the last time I was honest with myself?—I crave something more. Something real.
Not a polished arrangement. Not a name on a guest list or a face in a framed portrait. I crave being seen. Not as a Shekawat, not as the charming younger brother who smooths over scandalswith a smile, and not as the man who makes problems disappear before they can stain the family crest. I crave being someone’s choice. Someone’s first thought at sunrise and last at midnight.
I crave love. Desperately. Pathetically. The kind of love that anchors you when the world tilts, that wraps around your scars and calls them beautiful.
And maybe that’s why this feels heavier than it should. Because what if this—what if this ends up being another role to play? Another duty to perform while the part of me that wants more withers in silence?
I draw in a breath, slow, steadying. “Then,” I say finally, my voice low but firm, “I’d like to meet the princess first.”
Bhai-sa studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes giving nothing away. Then, he nods once. “Okay. We’ll arrange a meeting. But Vihaan—” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost brotherly, instead of kingly. “Remember, it’s okay if you don’t proceed with this. No alliance, political pressure, or royal obligation is worth your happiness. Do you understand?”
I nod, but the words barely register. Because even as I sit there, nodding like the obedient younger brother I’ve always been, my mind drifts elsewhere.
Rajkumari Koyal Sisodiya. I have only seen her once, in an event. She looked beautiful, but something in the way she treated the staff felt wrong to me. But I don’t judge unless I know. So I will wait for the meeting until I come to a decision.
