Karna's Heir - Chapter 18

Chapter 18: The Summons to Royalty

The week had crawled by with the slowness of a desert tortoise. Ajay’s world had shrunk to the four walls of the surprisingly plush hotel room Ananya had installed him in. It was a gilded cage, comfortable yet isolating. He rarely saw her. After that first bewildering night at the bar and the subsequent clinical explanation of their ‘contract,’ she had vanished, leaving him with a room key, a generous per diem for food, and a cryptic instruction to “stay put and don’t draw attention.”

He’d tried to fill the hours. The television offered a kaleidoscope of noise and color that failed to hold his interest. His phone, usually a source of endless distraction, felt oddly redundant. Who was he going to call? What would he say? Instead, he’d found an unexpected solace in the glowing screen of his laptop, specifically on YouTube. Hours were spent watching martial arts tutorials – basic self-defense, a few flashy kicks from action movies, the disciplined forms of Karate and Kung Fu. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was a subconscious desire for some form of control in a situation where he had absolutely none. Or maybe it was the memory of the goons at the bar, a stark reminder of his own vulnerability.

The strange thing was, he was learning. Not just memorizing moves, but understanding the mechanics, the shift of weight, the pivot of a foot. Information seemed to flow into him, absorbed like water into a parched sponge. He’d clear a small space between the bed and the window, mimicking the instructors on screen, his movements initially clumsy, then gradually more fluid. He found he could not only replicate what he saw but also intuitively grasp the underlying principles, stringing together combinations, anticipating the flow of a hypothetical fight. It was a small, secret empowerment in his otherwise passive existence.

The monotony shattered on the eighth day. There was no knock, just the click of a keycard in the lock. Ananya breezed in, radiating an aura of purpose and expensive perfume. She looked him up and down, a flicker of something unreadable in her almond-shaped eyes – not quite approval, not quite disdain.

“Get dressed,” she commanded, her voice crisp. “We’re going out.”

He’d been wearing the same rotation of two t-shirts and a pair of jeans he’d owned for a year. “Out where?”

“Shopping,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You can’t very well meet my family looking like… well, like that.” Her lips quirked, a hint of her characteristic humor, though it still felt aimed slightly above his head.

The shopping trip was an exercise in controlled bewilderment for Ajay. Ananya navigated the hushed, carpeted halls of an ultra-exclusive mall, a place where price tags were whispered, if displayed at all. She led him into boutiques that felt more like art galleries, where assistants with practiced smiles hovered obsequiously. Ajay, who usually bought his clothes from street markets or the occasional sale at a department store, felt like an imposter, a stray dog that had wandered into a palace.

Ananya was in her element, pointing at suits, shirts, and shoes with decisive gestures. “That one. And this. In charcoal grey. No, not navy. And a classic white shirt. Several. And a few in lighter blues.”

He stood awkwardly as tailors, summoned with a subtle nod from Ananya, took his measurements. The fabrics felt alien against his skin – smooth, light, impossibly fine. He was prodded and turned, draped in silks and wools that probably cost more than his entire annual earnings before this bizarre arrangement.

When he finally emerged from a fitting room clad in a perfectly tailored dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and a muted silk tie, even he had to admit the difference was startling. The reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror showed a stranger. The clothes didn’t magically transform his ordinary features into those of a matinee idol; he wasn’t suddenly became super handsome. His nose was still a bit too prominent, his jawline unremarkable. But the cut of the suit sharpened his silhouette, lent him an air of sophistication he’d never possessed. It was the clothes, undeniably, that looked good. He was just the mannequin fortunate enough to be wearing them.

Ananya observed him, her head tilted. “Better,” she conceded. “Much better. The raw material is… workable.” A ghost of a smile played on her lips. “Now, for the actual reason for this makeover.”

They were seated in a quiet corner of an upmarket café later, the bags from their shopping spree discreetly placed by a deferential waiter. Ajay nursed a glass of iced tea that cost more than his usual lunch.

Ananya, looking perfectly composed as always, dropped the bombshell. “We’re going to Rajasthan. To Suryagarh. Tomorrow.”

Ajay choked on his tea. “Tomorrow? To… to meet your family?” He’d known this was coming, logically. It was the entire point of their contract. But the immediacy of it, the stark reality of facing her world, sent a jolt of anxiety through him.

“Naturally,” she said, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “They are expecting to meet my… husband.” The way she said ‘husband’, a slight, almost imperceptible curl of her lip, told him volumes about her feelings regarding the role he was about to play.

He swallowed, his throat dry. “Right. Your family.” He remembered her brief mention of them at the bar – proud, traditional.

Ananya leaned back, stirring her own drink with a delicate silver spoon. The afternoon sun, filtering through the café window, caught the intricate goldwork in her earrings, making them gleam. “Yes, Ajay. My family. And given that you’re about to be thrown into the lion’s den, albeit a very gilded one, it’s probably best you have some idea of who you’re dealing with.”

Ajay felt a cold knot form in his stomach. He thought of his own small, unassuming family back in his village – his father, his mother, his younger sister. The contrast was already staggering.

“Let’s start with the foundation,” Ananya began, her voice taking on a narrative tone, as if she were recounting a historical saga – which, in many ways, she was. “The Rathores of Suryagarh. We cling fiercely to our lineage, even though the princely states were officially abolished decades ago. Think of it less as a kingdom now and more as a grand estate with a powerful local influence. But within our sphere, the traditions, the titles, the airs of royalty… they are very much alive.”

She paused, taking a sip of her drink. Ajay listened, rapt, a growing sense of unease settling upon him.

“At the top, you have my grandparents, my Dada Sa and Dadi Sa.”

“Maharaja, or rather, Titular Maharaja Bhawani Singh Rathore, my Dada Sa,” she said, a note of deep, ingrained respect in her voice, yet tinged with something else – perhaps a hint of the weariness of dealing with immovable tradition. “He’s in his early seventies. The stoic patriarch. Dada Sa was a young man when the princely states were formally integrated into India, and frankly, he’s never quite reconciled himself with the loss of actual, official power. He’s a man of immense dignity, steeped in tradition to his core. He views the modern world, your world, with a degree of suspicion, even disdain.”

Ajay shifted uncomfortably. He was the modern world, the common world, she was referring to.

Ananya continued, “He speaks very little, but when he does, his words carry immense weight. He is the ultimate authority on matters of lineage and honor. He fully supports maintaining the ‘royal’ facade and is likely the one most insistent on me making a… ‘suitable’ match to uphold our status.” She let that hang in the air for a moment, the implication clear. Ajay was the antithesis of ‘suitable.’ “He can be incredibly intimidating. He has this piercing gaze that seems to see right through you. He rarely jokes and finds my occasional irreverence mildly scandalous. Though,” a faint smile touched her lips, “I think he has a grudging respect for my spirit. Says it reminds him of his own mother, who was apparently quite formidable.”

Ajay tried to picture this stern, unyielding old man, a king without a kingdom, clinging to the glories of the past. It was a world away from anything he knew.

“Then there’s my grandmother, Maharani Gayatri Devi Rathore, my Dadi Sa. She’s in her late sixties.” Ananya’s expression softened slightly. “Dadi Sa is more pragmatic, more socially adept than Dada Sa. She understands the need to adapt, at least superficially, to the changing times. She’s the family’s social anchor, managing our reputation and network with incredible grace and shrewdness. While she values tradition as much as anyone, she’s also keenly aware of public perception, the importance of maintaining influence through softer power, as she calls it.”

“She adores me, I think, but worries about my headstrong nature.” Ananya chuckled, a low, musical sound. “She’s constantly trying to temper my more blatant snobbery with gentle – or sometimes not-so-gentle – reminders about discretion. She has a quiet sense of humor, Dadi Sa. We often exchange knowing glances when the men, especially my father and grandfather, are being particularly pompous. She’s the keeper of family secrets, and believe me, there are many. She wields considerable influence, but always behind the scenes.”

Ajay found himself liking the sound of Gayatri Devi. A pragmatic woman with a sense of humor seemed like a potential, if distant, ally in this intimidating landscape.

“Next, my parents,” Ananya said, her tone shifting again, becoming more complex. “My father, ‘Maharaja’ Vikramaditya Singh Rathore.” The quotes she mentally placed around ‘Maharaja’ were almost audible. “He’s in his late forties. Father is… an experience. He’s handsome, can be incredibly charismatic when he wants to be, and is utterly, completely obsessed with the glory of his ancestors and the Rathore name. He lives and breathes the illusion of kingship. His business ventures – heritage hotels, managing our land holdings, various ‘cultural’ enterprises – they’re all geared towards funding our rather lavish lifestyle and maintaining the trappings of royalty.”

Her gaze drifted out the window for a moment, a flicker of something – frustration? Sadness? – in her eyes. “He is incredibly proud, Ajay. Bordering on arrogant. And extremely sensitive to any perceived slight to his status. He places immense pressure on me to be the perfect princess. He sees my marriage as a crucial strategic move to bolster our family’s standing.” Her eyes met his, sharp and direct. “He is the primary force behind my… original arranged marriage. He views my objections as childish willfulness. His view on ‘commoners’?” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “They exist to serve or admire. There isn’t much of an in-between in his worldview.”

Ajay felt a chill. This was the man he would have to convince he was worthy of his daughter. The task seemed not just daunting, but impossible.

“And my mother, ‘Maharani’ Meenakshi Devi Rathore,” Ananya continued, her voice softer now, laced with affection and a hint of resignation. “She’s in her mid-forties. Elegant, always poised. Somewhat resigned to her life, I suppose. Mama comes from a similarly ‘noble’ family, though perhaps one less overtly ostentatious than ours. She supports my father’s ambitions, mostly out of a sense of duty and a desire for a peaceful life, but she’s more grounded in reality than he is. She understands the precariousness of our ‘royal’ status in this modern world.”

“She loves me very deeply, and she’s often caught between my desires and my father’s demands. She tries to mediate, often subtly. She’s my closest confidante within the immediate family, though she will ultimately defer to father on major decisions. It’s just the way things are. She’s more empathetic than my father, certainly, but still very much a product of her upbringing. Appearances and social standing are paramount. Though,” Ananya smiled faintly, “she might occasionally make a dry, understated comment about the absurdity of our situation that only I would catch. We have our little moments.”

The picture was becoming clearer, and more terrifying. A proud, obsessed father; a mediating but ultimately traditional mother; stern, powerful grandparents. And this was just the core.

“Then there are the relatives,” Ananya sighed, as if the mere thought exhausted her. “Every family has them, I suppose. Ours just come with titles and a heightened sense of drama.”

“First, my father’s younger brother, my Chacha Sa: Rajkumar Harshvardhan Singh Rathore. He’s in his early forties. Harshvardhan Chacha is what you might call the ‘modern’ royal in our family. He’s more pragmatic and less obsessed with the past than my father. He’s actually ventured into more contemporary businesses – I think he has interests in tech, maybe some finance – and he understands the need to integrate with the modern world, rather than just trying to preserve a bygone era within palace walls. He often clashes, very politely, of course, with my father about the family’s direction.”

Ananya’s expression was a little lighter when she spoke of him. “He’s fond of me, and I of him. He sometimes acts as a sympathetic ear, appreciates my intelligence. He might even subtly encourage my independent streak, though he’d never openly defy my father on something as serious as my marriage. He’s suave, well-traveled, and definitely less overtly snobbish than some others, though still very conscious of his lineage, naturally.”

“His wife, my Chachi Sa, is Rani Devika Singh Rathore. She’s in her late thirties. Devika Chachi is… ambitious. And very social. She comes from a wealthy background, but not ‘royal’ in the way the Rathores see it. She absolutely revels in the status her marriage has brought her. She’s a stickler for protocol when it suits her, and very conscious of her position within the family. She can be a bit of a gossip, and she’s quite competitive with my mother in subtle ways, mostly about who hosts the better parties or whose jewelry is more envied. She’s generally pleasant to me, but I suspect she might be slightly envious that I’m the direct heir’s daughter.”

Ajay was trying to keep track of the names and titles, a dizzying array of Maharajas, Maharanis, Rajkumars, and Ranis. It felt like studying for a history exam he was destined to fail.

“And then,” Ananya continued, a distinct note of exasperation entering her voice, “there’s my father’s sister, my Bua Sa. Her name is Rajeshwari, but everyone calls her Bua Sa. She’s in her mid-fifties. Bua Sa is the staunch traditionalist of all staunch traditionalists. She’s married into another old ‘noble’ family, and if it’s possible, she’s even more rigid about customs and propriety than Dada Sa. She visits Suryagarh often, unfortunately, and acts as the family’s self-appointed moral compass. She is incredibly quick to criticize any perceived lapse in conduct, especially from the younger generation, meaning mostly me.”

Ananya rolled her eyes dramatically. “She adores the idea of me making a grand, traditional match – to the right kind of prince, of course – and is utterly horrified by any hint of modern thinking from me. She can be overbearing and incredibly critical, but in her mind, she’s only acting in everyone’s best interest. I, frankly, find her insufferable.”

Ajay could almost picture this Bua Sa, a formidable woman in a starched saree, her eyes missing no detail, her tongue sharp with disapproval. He made a mental note to be particularly careful around her.

“My modern uncle and socialite aunt have children, of course. My cousins.” Ananya’s tone became a little more casual, though still tinged with her characteristic analysis.

“First, there’s Kunwar Veer Singh Rathore. He’s about nineteen. Veer is what you might call the ‘Reluctant Prince.’ He’s far more interested in video games, fast cars, and figuring out how to convince his parents to let him study abroad – something Dada Sa particularly frowns upon – than in family history or any supposed duties. He finds the constant emphasis on our lineage rather tiresome but generally goes along with it to avoid conflict. He might look up to me for my spirit, or maybe just because I occasionally sneak him books his parents wouldn’t approve of. He’s too laid-back to cause any trouble himself. He could be a source of unintentional comic relief, or perhaps an unlikely ally if he ever stumbled upon our… arrangement. He’s not the sharpest tool, but he’s harmless.”

“Then there’s his sister, Bai Sa Lavanya Kumari Rathore. She’s seventeen. Lavanya is the ‘Aspiring Socialite.’ She embraces the princess image wholeheartedly, but in a very modern, Instagram-influencer kind of way. She loves the fashion, the parties, the attention. She’s not as intellectually inclined as I am,” Ananya stated this as a simple fact, not a boast, “but she is socially savvy. She might be slightly jealous of my position as the ‘main’ princess of our generation in Suryagarh. She’s definitely more concerned with appearances than substance. She would be absolutely scandalized by my plan if she knew. Her comments on ‘poor people’,” Ananya gave a delicate shudder, “might be even more vapid and unthinking than my own sometimes can be, if you can imagine that.”

Ajay could, indeed, imagine. Ananya’s own occasional comments, though sharp, often carried an undertone of intellectual assessment, however skewed. Lavanya sounded like a different breed of entitled.

Ananya paused, taking a deep breath as if gathering herself for the next piece of critical information. “And then, there’s my younger brother. The heir.”

“Yuvraj Arjun Singh Rathore,” she said, her voice a strange mix of affection, exasperation, and a profound, almost hidden melancholy. “He’s twelve. And he is the designated heir, the future ‘Maharaja’ of Suryagarh in my father’s grand vision.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Ajay. Ananya, so clearly intelligent and capable, was sidelined by her gender.

“Arjun is the Pampered Prince, in every sense of the word,” Ananya explained. “He’s been doted upon since birth, explicitly groomed as the successor. He’s accustomed to getting his way and is often surrounded by sycophants or indulgent family members. This has made him somewhat spoiled, and he can be occasionally petulant if his desires aren’t immediately met. At twelve, Arjun doesn’t fully grasp the complexities of our ‘royal’ status in modern India, or the sacrifices made to maintain it. For him, being a ‘Yuvraj’ mostly means privileges, constant deference from staff, and exciting stories about our warrior ancestors. He sees the palace, the traditions, and the respect we receive as simply the natural order of things.”

She traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip. “He genuinely looks up to me. He sees my beauty, my intelligence – even if he doesn’t always understand my sharp wit – and my confident demeanor. He probably thinks I know everything. However, he can also be slightly intimidated by me, especially when I’m in one of my proud or sarcastic moods. He knows I can outsmart him easily. He often repeats the sentiments he hears from our father and grandfather about lineage, duty, and the importance of the Rathore name, without fully internalizing their deeper meaning. He might innocently make classist remarks, echoing what he’s heard, believing it to be simple fact. For example, he might casually mention that ‘common people’ are lucky to serve us.”

Ajay winced internally.

“While he’s still just a child, there are moments when the weight of expectation seems to flicker within him. He might try to act ‘princely’ or ‘kingly’ in small, sometimes comical ways. My father, of course, piles on lessons about leadership and our family’s glorious past, which Arjun absorbs with a mixture of boyish enthusiasm and occasional boredom. He’s largely shielded from the adult complexities of my… situation. He probably just thinks his older sister is going to have a grand wedding, like in the storybooks. He wouldn’t understand my rebellion or my current desperate measures. If he were to stumble upon any part of our secret, his reaction would likely be utter confusion, or a childlike sense of betrayal. ‘But Dada Sa said she has to marry that other prince!’ something like that.”

Ananya sighed. “Being younger, Arjun is more malleable. His current attitudes are largely a reflection of his upbringing. I do view him with affection, he is my little brother after all. But also with exasperation at his spoiled nature and those parroted opinions. And yes, sometimes with a touch of melancholy, because he represents the patriarchal line of succession that, despite all my capabilities, I cannot officially lead in my father’s traditional view. I might be fiercely protective of him in some ways, yet I’m also acutely aware that his path is smoother simply because he is male. I occasionally try to subtly educate him or challenge his ingrained notions with a sarcastic remark that invariably goes straight over his head.”

The café was quiet, save for the distant clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations. Ajay felt as though he’d been given a crash course in the sociology of a forgotten era. Each character Ananya described was vivid, complex, and, in their own way, intimidating. He was about to step into a dynastic drama, a world of gilded cages and ancient codes.

And then Ananya arrived at the final, most crucial character in her briefing. Her voice dropped, losing all traces of humor or detached analysis. It became tight, laced with a venom that made Ajay sit up straighter.

“And now,” she said, her eyes hardening, “we come to the main reason for your employment, Ajay. My actual, royally-approved, and utterly detestable fiancé: Prince Bhanu Pratap Singh of Devgarh.”

The name itself seemed to leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Devgarh is a neighboring erstwhile princely state. While perhaps not as historically prominent or as ‘pure’ in lineage – at least in my family’s more biased view – as Suryagarh, Devgarh is currently wealthier and more politically influential in the modern landscape. Bhanu Pratap’s father has made some shrewd investments in industry and politics. This, of course, makes the alliance strategically attractive to my father.”

“Bhanu Pratap is in his late twenties. And yes, he’s undeniably handsome, in a conventional, almost flashy way. Sharp features, strong jawline, an athletic build honed more by leisurely polo matches and tennis than any real exertion. He dresses impeccably in expensive, modern designer wear, often blended with traditional Rajput affectations like a ridiculously bejeweled brooch or a custom-made bandhgala that probably costs more than your annual salary.”

Ajay flinched internally. His current contracted salary was ₹1 Lakh per month. Before Ananya, his annual salary had been a fraction of that. The casual comparison stung.

“He carries himself with this unbearable swagger that just screams entitlement. His smile is usually a smirk, and his eyes always have this glint of someone who is used to getting whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. There’s a faint air of dissipation about him, you know? Subtle dark circles under his eyes, a slight puffiness that hints at his late nights and incredibly indulgent lifestyle.”

Ananya leaned forward, her voice low and intense. “He is profoundly arrogant and entitled, Ajay. Bhanu Pratap is the absolute epitome of a spoiled prince who genuinely believes the world revolves around him. His arrogance isn’t just an act; it’s deeply ingrained. He views his title and wealth as inherent proof of his superiority over everyone else. He talks down to almost everyone, expects constant adulation, and has absolutely zero patience for anyone who doesn’t immediately cater to his every whim. He genuinely believes that rules and social norms are things that apply to other people, not to him.”

Her fingers tightened around her glass. “But the core of my disdain, the reason I would rather run away with a complete stranger from a bar than marry him, is his notoriously messy romantic life. He’s a womanizer. A serial philanderer with a reputation that precedes him wherever he goes. He has a string of short-lived, often scandalous, affairs – models, actresses, socialites, sometimes even women in vulnerable positions who can’t afford to say no or complain. And he’s not even discreet about it! He practically views his conquests as another mark of his status, another trophy. There are constant whispers of broken hearts, reputations deliberately tarnished by him or his cronies, and probably even hush money paid out to avoid public scandals. He sees women as objects for his pleasure or for status enhancement. Nothing more.”

The disgust in her voice was palpable. “He can turn on a superficial charm when it suits his purpose, especially with elders like my grandfather, or with people he needs to impress. But that charm, it’s so manufactured, so false, it rarely lasts long. I see right through it. He has very little empathy and is largely incapable of considering how his actions affect others. If confronted about his behavior, he’d likely react with annoyance, disbelief that anyone would dare question him, or some condescending justification that makes you want to scream.”

“His primary motivation in life is the enhancement of his own status and his own pleasure. This marriage to me? For him, it’s just another feather in his cap. Suryagarh has the ancient lineage, I have the looks and the pedigree he needs. It’s a ‘good look’ for him and his family, further cementing their position. He doesn’t care about me as an individual, Ajay. Not beyond my role as a future princess of Devgarh and a beautiful trophy wife he can parade around.”

“And when he doesn’t get his way, or if his precious ego is bruised, that charming facade cracks wide open to reveal a petulant, almost childish temper. He can become demanding, verbally abusive, or use his family’s power and influence to punish anyone who displeases him. And to top it all off, he’s intellectually lazy. Unlike me,” she stated it flatly, “he probably isn’t particularly bright or interested in anything that requires actual thought. He relies on his family’s wealth and their advisors to navigate complex situations, preferring to focus on his social life and his ridiculous hobbies. The intellectual mismatch alone would be a daily torture.”

She finally leaned back, a shudder running through her. “That, Ajay, is why I hate him. His utter disrespect for women is deeply offensive to my sense of dignity, both as a woman and as a princess who, believe it or not, expects a certain degree of respect. His arrogance, completely unbacked by any genuine accomplishment or admirable quality, grates on every nerve. The idea of being bound to someone so intellectually inferior and morally bankrupt is an insult to my own capabilities and my self-worth. I envision a future with him as one of constant humiliation, of loneliness, of being trapped in a gilded cage while he continues his debauchery. I know I would have no real voice, no partnership in such a marriage. It would be the death of my spirit. Marrying him would mean subsuming my identity to his, becoming just ‘Prince Bhanu Pratap’s wife,’ a beautiful, mindless accessory. My pride in my Rathore lineage, my own strong personality, rebels against that with every fiber of my being.”

She looked at Ajay then, her eyes blazing with a desperate fire. “He likely sees our marriage as a done deal, a convenient arrangement. He might even be mildly pleased with my appearance, as it reflects well on him. He probably assumes I’ll be like other women he knows – easily placated with expensive gifts and empty status, willing to turn a blind eye to his endless indiscretions. The idea that I might genuinely detest him, that I would actively try to escape this marriage… that would probably be inconceivable to him. Or at best, he’d dismiss it as a temporary feminine whim.”

“So now you understand,” she concluded, her voice softer but still intense. “That is Prince Bhanu Pratap Singh. That is who you are saving me from. That is who this entire charade is about.”

Ajay sat in stunned silence. The air in the chic café suddenly felt heavy, oppressive. The sheer scale of Ananya’s world, the weight of its traditions, the complexity of its characters, and the vileness of her intended fiancé crashed down on him. “Princess” wasn’t an exaggeration; it was an understatement for the intricate, high-stakes drama she inhabited.

His mind reeled. Grandparents who were living relics of a bygone era, a father obsessed with a phantom crown, a mother walking a tightrope of duty and affection, uncles and aunts embodying tradition and modernity, cousins navigating their own princely paths, a little brother destined to rule, and a fiancé who sounded like a villain from a particularly sordid film.

And he, Ajay, the random guy from a bar, now armed with a few expensive suits and a rudimentary knowledge of YouTube martial arts, was supposed to walk into this lion’s den and convince them all he belonged.

His ₹1 Lakh per month salary, which had seemed like a fortune just a week ago, suddenly felt like pocket change, laughably insignificant in the face of the dynastic wealth and power Ananya had described. He was a minnow swimming with sharks, a pawn in a royal game whose rules he was only just beginning to comprehend.

Nervousness was too mild a word for what he felt. It was a profound, gut-wrenching apprehension, mixed with a dawning understanding of Ananya’s desperation. This wasn’t just a whim, or a spoilt princess’s tantrum. This was a fight for her life, for her very soul. And he, somehow, had become her chosen weapon.

The summons to royalty had been issued. And Ajay, despite every instinct screaming at him to run, knew he had to answer.