A proposal rooted in tradition, but destined by fate."

Eraya Sharma

"Eraya, we need to talk."

My mother’s voice—usually so soft, so familiar—carried a weight that immediately made my heart stutter. It wasn’t just her tone. It was the way she stood in the doorway, like the words she was holding back were heavier than the air in the room.

I looked up from the reports sprawled across the floor—files I had spent the entire morning combing through for our NGO's upcoming fundraiser. Paperwork I had once found pressing and important suddenly felt insignificant. The words on the pages blurred, overtaken by the intensity in her gaze.

She didn’t move at first. She just stood there, caught between her decision to speak and the fear of what it would cause. Her eyes flicked toward the kitchen door, where I knew Papa sat, pretending to read the newspaper like he wasn’t listening. Like he hadn’t been waiting for this exact moment.

And then there was Tara.

Her wide eyes peeked from behind Ma's shoulder, full of mischief, curiosity, and that unmistakable younger-sibling glee that always surfaced when things got dramatic. She looked like she was watching a scene from her favorite soap opera.

“Tara,” I sighed, not even looking at her fully. “Stop eavesdropping. Go.”

She groaned, dragging her feet dramatically. “Ugh, fine. But if you end up marrying someone named Raja Saheb, I want the first slice of wedding cake.”

I shook my head, but a flicker of unease settled in my chest. It was the kind of unease that made your skin prickle before a storm.

Once Tara was gone, Ma stepped forward, clutching the edge of her dupatta tightly. That nervous habit of hers—I’d seen it before during difficult conversations. During moments when something delicate was being carried in her heart.

She sat beside me, gently placing a plain white envelope on the coffee table between us. Her hands hovered over it for a moment, and then she looked at me with eyes that seemed to hold both hope and hesitation.

“A marriage proposal has come for you,” she said quietly.

I stared at the envelope like it was something radioactive. Like touching it might change everything I thought I knew about my life.

“Excuse me?” My voice was flat. Cold, even. It wasn’t anger—not yet. It was disbelief. A creeping numbness spreading through my fingers.

“It’s a very good match,” she said, as if saying it quickly would make it easier for me to accept. “From a very... prestigious family.”

There it was. That word.

Prestigious.

I exhaled sharply through my nose. “Please tell me this isn’t serious.”

“It is.” Her voice had dropped even further, softer now. “It’s from the Ranawat family. Jaipur.”

The name hit like a cold gust of wind through an open window. I blinked slowly, trying to connect the dots.

“Ranawat as in...?”

She nodded. “Yes. Royal family.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re joking. A royal family wants me? For marriage? Did they get the wrong biodata? Or did their software glitch and send it here by mistake?”

“No, beta.”

Papa had entered the room quietly, placing the newspaper down with a sigh that held more meaning than words ever could. His eyes were serious—more serious than I’d seen in a long time. Maybe ever.

“They sent the biodata yesterday,” he said. “The boy—Vidhart Singh Ranawat—specifically asked for you.”

Everything stilled. The room. My breath. The pulse in my ears.

“He knows me?” I asked, the words barely more than a whisper.

“We don’t think so,” Ma answered gently. “But he said he saw you... years ago. And he remembered. He asked his family to find you.”

The walls of our home—our small, lived-in, laughter-stained home in Dehradun—suddenly felt smaller. Tighter. Like they were closing in on the life I had so carefully built for myself.

I wasn’t a princess. I wasn’t someone made for palaces or royal lineages. I was an NGO worker who wore simple clothes and spoke for those who had no voice. I lived among stories that were heavy and real. So how could I possibly belong in someone else’s fairy tale?

My mother must’ve seen the storm brewing in my expression, because she reached for my hand.

“You’re not a piece of property,”

I muttered. “I won’t be traded for status or tradition.”

Papa’s voice was calm, almost pleading. “No one is saying you are. We’re only asking you to consider meeting him.”

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the envelope. The paper was thick, formal, and far too official for something as intimate as a marriage proposal. I pulled out the sheet inside. It had his full biodata—education, achievements, blood group, family tree. Everything but the answers I actually needed.

Then I saw the photograph.

A man stared back at me—Vidhart Singh Ranawat. Sharp features, eyes like charcoal that had seen too much and spoken too little, and a jawline carved by discipline. He wore a tailored suit, but the weight in his gaze didn’t come from wealth. It came from something else. Something... buried.

He looked like someone who didn’t just walk into a room—he claimed it. Not with arrogance, but with presence. With a calmness that could silence chaos.

Powerful.

Stoic.

Dangerous.

And yet... there was something about his eyes.

A flicker.

A memory.

A knowing.

My heartbeat was loud now. Louder than it should’ve been for a man I didn’t know. Or maybe... had unknowingly met, once upon a time, without realizing what that moment would one day become.

I looked up, the paper still trembling in my hand.

And for the first time, I felt it—not fear.

But curiosity.

Eraya Sharma had the kind of beauty that didn’t demand attention—but held it effortlessly. With warm, almond-shaped eyes that always seemed to carry too much empathy for the world, and wheatish skin that glowed like twilight, she looked like someone who belonged more to poetry than reality. Her long, dark hair was usually tied in a no-nonsense braid, strands always slipping loose during work at the NGO, and her frame was slender—delicate, but quietly resilient. There was something deeply graceful in the way she moved, unaware of her own elegance. Simple cotton kurtas, a soft kajal lining her eyes, and a voice that was calm yet assertive—Eraya didn’t fit the mold of a royal bride.

And yet, she carried a kind of quiet strength that made her unforgettable.