POV: Eraya Sharma

"Eraya, we need to talk."

My mother’s voice was unusually serious for a Saturday afternoon. I looked up from the worn-out reports I’d been reviewing for the NGO’s next fundraiser and blinked. She was standing by the living room doorway, eyes flicking between me and the closed kitchen door where Papa was likely listening, pretending to read his newspaper.

My sister Tara peeked out from behind her, eyes wide like she was watching a reality show unfold. One with twists, betrayal, and a dramatic background score.

"What’s wrong?" I asked cautiously.

My mother walked in, clutching her dupatta tightly in that way she always did when she was nervous. She sat beside me, placed a plain white envelope on the coffee table, and said seven words that would change everything.

"A marriage proposal has come for you."

I stared at the envelope like it might bite.

"Excuse me?"

"It’s a very good match," she continued, rushing the words as if speed would soften the blow. "From a very… prestigious family."

"Tara," I said, without looking at my sister, "stop eavesdropping and go."

Tara groaned. "Ugh, fine. But if you end up marrying a guy named Raja Saheb, I want the first slice of wedding cake."

I shook my head as she vanished, then turned to my mom. "Please tell me this isn’t serious."

"It is," she said quietly. "It’s from the Ranawat family. Jaipur."

I blinked. "Ranawat as in…?"

She nodded. "Yes. Royal family."

I burst out laughing. "This has to be a prank. A royal family from Jaipur wants to marry me? Did they confuse me with someone else? Or was there a clerical error?"

"No, beta." My father had finally entered, placing the newspaper down. "They sent the biodata yesterday. The boy—Vidhart Singh Ranawat—specifically asked for you."

I froze. "He knows me?"

My mother shook her head. "We don’t think so. But he said he had seen you years ago and asked his family to find you."

Now I stared. Not just at them—but at the quiet, ordinary walls of my Dehradun home that suddenly seemed too small for this conversation.

Vidhart Singh Ranawat.

I’d read about him in the news. A successful businessman with royal blood, known for his strategic mind, philanthropic ventures… and stone-cold expression. The kind of man who didn’t just walk into a room—he commanded it.

"I’m not a piece of property," I whispered.

"No one is saying you are," Papa said gently. "But we’d like you to consider meeting him."

I opened the envelope with trembling hands. A printed profile. A photograph. His face stared up at me—sharp jawline, charcoal eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. Powerful. Stoic. Dangerous.

And I’d never been more curious.