It was the season of rebirth. Every decade, the three sovereign monarchies of Bharat-Rajputana, Malwa, and Dakshin-hosted a grand royal conclave: a week-long celebration of diplomacy, unity, and decadent indulgence. The event rotated between kingdoms, and this year, it was Rajputana's turn to host in its resplendent Jaipur palace grounds.
Though the conclave was still a month away, the opulence had already begun to bleed through the capital. Streets sparkled under golden fairy lights, palatial estates buzzed with anticipation, and guest lists were being curated like weapons in warfare.
But on this particular day, excitement swelled for another reason-it was the **twentieth birthday of Yuvraj Veer Pratap Singh**, the second prince of Rajputana and its most coveted bachelor.
Among the elegantly dressed aristocrats in the palace's ivory garden pavilion sat **Anaya Mehra**, the daughter of the Prime Minister. Her silk saree shimmered under the soft chandeliers, her diamond maang tikka perfectly placed, and her expression as placid as still water.
Internally, however, she was seething.
The object of her ire sat across from her, demure in blush pink chiffon, laughing a little too freely-**Meher Sharma**, the mysterious woman who had, in recent months, gone from obscurity to national fascination.
She was always there. At Veer's polo matches. At the royal charity galas. At intimate palace dinners. As if the universe itself conspired to thrust her into his orbit.
There had never been an official engagement between Anaya and Veer, but promises had been made. Their families were bound by blood and power, their futures charted since childhood. The Empress herself-Veer's mother-had once said that Anaya would make a perfect queen.
And yet, they waited.
She had waited. Through her teenage years. Through her debut. Through Veer's military postings and return. Now, at eighteen, Anaya remained unwed, her title unofficial, and her heart-if such a thing still lived-held hostage by illusions.
But none of that mattered now.
Because today... her world began to collapse.
---
The moment came with subtle cruelty.
A royal attendant arrived mid-celebration to announce the Emperor's decree. It was Veer and Meher who were summoned before the dais. Anaya watched them rise-he in navy bandhgalas, she in angelic cream-and kneel before the Emperor.
Her spine stiffened. Her lungs stilled.
No. No, it can't be.
But it was.
The royal edict was clear: the Emperor had chosen Meher Sharma to be Yuvraj Veer's bride. The engagement was now official.
Gasps fluttered like moths in the garden, followed by the click of champagne glasses and hollow congratulations. The same women who gossiped about Meher just hours earlier now swarmed her with compliments.
Anaya didn't flinch. Her performance was flawless.
She smiled. She clapped. She even toasted the couple with perfectly feigned delight. But beneath the red lacquer of her nails, her palms bled from the force of her own grip.
And Meher-sweet, idiotic Meher-actually believed the act.
---
Later that evening, the palace began to quiet. Fireworks faded, and the moonlight cast silver streaks across the marble corridors.
Anaya strolled alone in the rose gardens, her dupatta trailing like spilled blood behind her. She had one goal: to find Veer. To plead. Or, perhaps, to offer a compromise. She would even settle for being his royal consort-first rank. It was humiliating, but she was beyond pride.
Instead, she saw someone else.
A silhouette by the lotus pond. Familiar. Irritating. Meher.
Standing alone, back to her, completely unaware of Anaya's presence.
A dark urge stirred. Just a little push. One nudge into the water. A poetic retaliation.
She crept forward. Steady. Silent. Almost there-
"Is this how the Prime Minister's daughter handles heartbreak?"
The voice was low, clipped, and deeply unamused.
A hand grasped her wrist. Tight.
**Major Aryan Rathore.**
Veer's closest friend. A man with the soul of a storm and the patience of a blade.
Anaya turned, glaring. "You can let go of me now, Major."
He didn't. Not immediately. When he did, it was with distaste etched into every line of his jaw.
"For someone raised with etiquette, your methods are pitiful," he said.
She gave him a smile as sharp as the knife she wished she carried. "And you're always where you shouldn't be. Do you lurk in gardens waiting to play hero?"
He said nothing, but his eyes were unreadable. Cold. Unforgiving.
Suddenly, the throb in her head returned-an ache that blurred her vision. She lost her footing.
Aryan caught her, steadying her without ceremony. She slapped his hands away.
"Why didn't you fight for her?" she spat. "You loved her before he did. If you'd just confessed, none of this would be happening!"
Her voice cracked, not with grief-but rage.
And then darkness took her.
---
She awoke hours later, fevered and sweating, in her ivory-canopied bedroom. Her head no longer ached. But the truth had settled in. Like ashes.
This wasn't just heartbreak.
It was destiny. Scripted. Inflexible.
She was a side character in someone else's story.
A villainess in a tale written for another woman's glory.
But if she was going to fall-she would fall with teeth bared, claws out, and her own ending. Not theirs.
And if Aryan Rathore was to be the instrument of her ruin...
Then he would taste her vengeance first.