The drawing room of the Mehra estate was unusually full that morning. Sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows gilded in ivory, casting long streaks across the white marble floor. Brass trays of sweets lay untouched, tension crackling louder than any conversation.
At the center of the opulence stood a royal emissary—an imperial eunuch in pristine cream sherwani trimmed with silver zari—flanked by a senior palace maidservant in a pastel silk saree. Behind them were attendants carrying chests carved from sandalwood and rose gold, laden with fabrics, jewels, and gifts fit for a queen.
They were sent by Her Majesty, the Empress of Rajputana.
Anaya Mehra—the Prime Minister's daughter and, until yesterday, the unspoken future Maharani—sat with perfect poise, her expression serene, her posture unyielding. No one watching her could have guessed that her world had been obliterated less than twenty-four hours ago.
The marriage between Yuvraj Veer and Meher Sharma was now public knowledge. The media was already ablaze with photos, tweets, and op-eds about the empire's newest fairytale couple.
This? This opulent insult was the palace's version of damage control.
The Empress had sent "gifts of honor" to Anaya in a show of false generosity. Saffron-gold Kanjeevaram sarees. Emerald sets from Jaipur's royal treasury. Rare Himalayan saffron. And a letter written in the Empress's own hand, expressing deep "regret" and wishing Anaya happiness in her "future."
A future that had just been stolen.
The eunuch's voice was syrupy as he unrolled the scroll.
"By decree of His Royal Majesty, Maharaja Veerendra Singh Rathod, we invite Kumari Anaya Mehra to grace the palace with her presence during the royal wedding ceremony of His Highness Yuvraj Veer Pratap Singh and Rajkumari Meher Sharma."
A calculated blow disguised as a courtesy.
The invitation wasn't optional. It was royal obligation dressed in silken language. Declining it would be seen as rebellion. Acceptance would mean performing grace for the world that just humiliated her.
Anaya accepted the scroll with a slight nod, her hands cool and steady. "We are honored," she replied smoothly.
Only once the royal party had left—with their retinue, fanfare, and smug diplomacy—did the masks begin to crack.
Her mother, Amrita Mehra, burst into tears, her gold bangles clinking as she paced. "How could they humiliate us like this? How dare they humiliate *you*!"
Her father, the Prime Minister, remained silent, his jaw clenched as he stared out the window at the departing carriages.
Her elder brother, Karan, cursed under his breath. "They play politics with our sister like she's a bargaining chip. I swear to God, if I see that prince—"
"Enough." Anaya's voice was calm, too calm.
Everyone turned to look at her.
She sat with the scroll in her lap, reading it again—then again. Her eyes were dry. Her face emotionless. Only her thumb trembled, ever so slightly, over the edge of the golden paper.
"Whatever happens," she said softly, "we will not embarrass ourselves. We will attend."
Her family began to protest, but she silenced them with a single glance.
"They want a performance?" she whispered. "Then I'll give them one. Let the palace see that I don't break. I burn."
---
In the following days, Anaya retreated to her private wing of the estate, rarely leaving the sanctity of her rooms. But the staff spoke in hushed tones about the things they heard—sounds of crashing porcelain, muffled sobs, the fierce strings of a sitar played like a warcry.
Her rage had taken form. It had *voice*.
She painted—violent, bleeding colors. She played the sitar with savage rhythm. She screamed into pillows. And still, nothing dulled the inferno inside her.
Why wasn't she enough?
She had been groomed for this role all her life. Born with pedigree. Raised on royal etiquette, diplomacy, elegance. She mastered every art a future Maharani should: languages, painting, dance, music, chess, even equestrianism.
But Meher? A nobody who emerged from nowhere with her mysteriously cured health, suspicious knowledge, and divine timing?
Anaya could taste the bitterness in her throat like venom.
Let them say what they want. Call her petty. Call her a villainess. She would not crawl. She would not beg.
She would rise. But on her own terms.
---
The wedding day approached swiftly. It was to be held not in the capital's grand Durbar Hall, but in the forested outer estate of the royal family—a private retreat nestled in Aravalli's green embrace. A "whimsical wish" from Meher Sharma, one Veer was all too eager to indulge.
Anaya laughed when she heard. Of course it was in that forest. It was where Meher had "miraculously" saved Veer's life years ago, applying emergency first aid with a knowledge no village girl should possess.
Everything about her was suspect. A textbook heroine, like someone out of...
A book.
And that's when it struck her.
This wasn't just life. This was *a story.*
And she? She was the villainess.
Forgotten. Replaced. Fated to be discarded.
Unless she changed the ending.