“Hold it properly! It’s tilting to the left!” Rajkumari Koyal’s sharp voice slices through the air, making two maids scramble to adjust the crystal chandelier centerpiece. I watch her glide into the hall, her peacock-blue lehenga trailing behind her like a river, gold bangles clinking softly at her wrists. She looks radiant, confident—everything I am not.
And then he enters.
Maharaj Digvijay. His presence fills the room like sunlight through a window, warm and commanding. The chatter softens to murmurs as heads turn in reverence. He walks toward Rajkumari Koyal with a smile reserved for those who belong, those who matter.
“Perfect, Koyal,” he says, his voice deep, laced with approval. He lifts a hand and gently pats her head, fingers brushing her hair like a father’s blessing. She beams under his touch, eyes shining as if his acknowledgment is the most precious jewel she owns.
I lower my gaze, ashamed of the bitterness curdling in my chest. Good girls don’t envy their sisters. Good girls smile and nod and thank the heavens for whatever scraps they’re given. But I don’t feel good. I feel like the glass screen between us—clear enough to see through, strong enough to keep me out.
My glasses slip down my nose, and I push them back with an impatient hand. Rajkumari Koyal doesn’t need glasses. She doesn’t need to hide behind them. Everything about her seems… easy. Loved. Wanted.
And me? I’m the afterthought they wrapped in silk to make presentable. The illegitimate child dressed like royalty so the world doesn’t whisper too loudly.
And then, as if fate wants to mock me further, my thoughts drift tohim.
Kunwar Vihaan Singh Shekawat.The man I’m supposed to marry. The man I met only days ago, in that sunlit hotel Maharaj owns, where time seemed to pause for reasons I’m still trying to untangle.
His voice echoes faintly in my head, smooth and deep, threaded with something I couldn’t name then. Patience, maybe? Or curiosity? He didn’t look at me the way others do, with pity wrapped in politeness. His gaze had weight, like he actually saw me. As if behind these too-big spectacles and this careful silence, there was a person worth… knowing.
And that scares me. More than being ignored, more than being unloved—being seen feels dangerous. What if he finds the cracks I’ve hidden for years? What if he decides I’m too broken for even a forced fairy tale?
I glance up just as Digvijay clears his throat, his arm still draped protectively around Koyal. “Everything must be perfect,” he says, his voice firm but proud. “After all, this alliance strengthens not just two families, but our legacy.”
Legacy.I almost laugh. Because that’s all I’ve ever been to them—a means to tidy up their legacy, to polish the tarnish of a secret they never want exposed.
I lower my eyes before they sting, focusing on the fine weave of my dupatta pooled in my lap. If I press hard enough, maybe I can ground myself in its threads, pretend the knots in my chest are just fabric and not feelings.
They keep talking—menus, guest lists, jewelry sets—but their voices blur into static. All I can hear is my own pulse drummingagainst my temples, whispering the question I’ve asked a thousand times:
What about what I want?
And the answer, as always, is silence.
Until Vihaan’s voice intrudes again—not in reality, but in memory. Calm, steady, almost reassuring:“I promise I’ll do my best to be a good life partner to you.”
I cling to that like a lifeline. Because maybe—just maybe—the man who will soon stand beside me in sacred vows isn’t like the rest of them.
Maybe he’ll make me believe this day could be mine after all.
CHAPTER 6
The Moment She Became Mine
VIHAAN
The mandap stands in the center of the palace courtyard like a jewel set in gold—pillars carved with intricate motifs, draped in fresh marigolds, the scent of sandalwood and rose clinging to the air. Beyond the boundary of sacred fire and flowers, there is a sea of people—royal relatives in vibrant silks, politicians exchanging fake smiles, reporters craning their necks for a better shot. Cameras flash like lightning, and every click reminds me of the fact that this is not just a wedding—it’s a spectacle. A headline in the making.
I’ve faced cameras all my life, lights blinding enough to make anyone falter, flashes that could turn your face into a mask if you let them. But right now, none of it matters. Not the crowd waiting outside the palace gates, not the press lined up like vultures for a headline, not even the sheer weight of tradition hanging in the air.
Because the only thing my eyes can find—must find—is her.
Poorvi.
The woman who, in a matter of minutes, will become my wife.
I straighten my sherwani cuffs for the tenth time. It’s not nerves. Not exactly. I’ve faced boardrooms filled with cutthroat tycoons, media scandals, political pressure—but this…this feels different. There’s a weight to the vows I’m about to take. A heaviness that has nothing to do with tradition and everything to do with responsibility. I chose this. I agreed to this. And I want it to mean something.
A stir in the crowd makes me look up. The musicians pause for just a beat, then resume their rhythm with renewed energy. That’s my signal. She’s here.
