Next week.
The words crash over me like a tidal wave, dragging me under. Next week. Seven days from now, my life will no longer be mine. Not that it ever truly was.
My world tilts, cracks forming in every dream I’d ever dared to hold.
Marriage is supposed to be sacred. A choice. A bond born of love, or at least respect. And now… now I’m nothing but a bargaining chip in Digvijay’s game of power.
“Be thankful,” he says coldly, walking back and sinking in his chair, his pen scratching across paper again as if I’m already dismissed. “You got to grow up in this palace because of my father’s generosity. He liked your mother too much for his own good.”
The words sting like acid.
“You will meet him tomorrow,” he adds without looking up. “You will behave. Do not embarrass me.”
His nostrils flare, his jaw set in a line so sharp it could cut.
I stare at him, my voice lost somewhere in the wreckage inside me. My feet feel heavy, but somehow, they move. Somehow, I turn and walk toward the door, each step hollow.
Tears prick my eyes, hot and relentless, spilling before I can stop them. They blur the gilded frames on the walls, the silken drapes, the marble floors—all the finery of a world that has never felt like mine.
Am I just an object to them? A piece to be moved across a board for their benefit?
All I’ve ever wanted was love. To be enough for someone. To be seen. Truly seen.
And for a fleeting moment, I thought maybe that would come when I married—that at least my husband would look at me and know I exist. That I matter.
But even that dream, he’s taken from me.
The tears stream freely now as I step out into the corridor, the heavy doors closing behind me with a sound that feels final.
Inside my chest, something breaks. And I wonder if it will ever mend.
CHAPTER 4
The Stranger Who Stole My Breath
VIHAAN
The sound of clinking glasses echoes faintly across the empty dining hall. My fingers tap idly against the polished teak table, the rhythm syncing with the muffled sound of the central AC. The Sisodiyas’ new hotel in Bikaner is… grand, in that heavy, old-money sort of way. Gold arches. Velvet chairs. Chandeliers dripping crystals like frozen rain. It’s meant to impress, to whisperlegacyin every glimmer.
But right now, the place feels like a mausoleum.
Except for the staff hovering in the background—silent, efficient, pretending they aren’t listening—there’s no one here. Not a single guest. The entire dining floor is mine, cordoned off for thismeeting.
I lean back, stretching slightly, and glance at Karan, my assistant, perched at another table near the far wall. He’s scrolling through his phone, probably playing some game or reading political updates. His face is neutral, but I know he’s just as restless as I am.
I check my watch. Fifteen minutes past the scheduled time.
Of course.Royal families rarely run on clocks; they run on ego.
I glance at my phone, open the chat with Meher bhabhi sa.
Meher Bhabhi sa:Try to make a good impression today, hmm?
Me:Of course.
Meher Bhabhi sa:Unlike your brother, who told me “We need to marry” like it was a business deal.
I chuckle, typing back quickly:
