V I D H A R T

The world outside my office window was a curated panorama of Jaipur’s timeless skyline—a blend of ancient fortresses and modern ambition, bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun. But my universe had shrunk to the fifteen-inch screen of my laptop, where a different, more vital drama played out.

The video was grainy, shot from a discreet distance by a resourceful contact in Dehradun. Yet, it captured everything.

Her.

My Eraya.

My breath hitched the moment she entered the frame, a vision of furious grace on that ridiculous pink scooter. I watched, my body coiled tight, as she knelt before the sobbing boy. The sight of his bloody lip sent a bolt of pure, unadulterated rage straight through my core. My knuckles turned white where they gripped the edge of my mahogany desk.

Then the dhaba owner spoke. His voice, tinny through the speakers, called her “madam” with a sneer, hurled insults at the child, and claimed boys like him deserved to be beaten.

A growl, low and feral, erupted from my throat. My vision tunneled. The air in my plush, silent office suddenly felt thick with the same dust and injustice of that roadside. How dare he? How dare he speak to her with that tone? How dare he raise his hand near her? A possessive, protective fury I had never known I possessed threatened to choke me. I wanted to reach through the screen and dismantle the man with my bare hands.

And then she did it for me.

Her move was so swift, so sure. The catch of his wrist. The yank that broke his momentum. And then… the slap.

Thwack.

The sound, even digitally rendered, was perfection. It was justice distilled into a single, sharp note.

My own hand flew to my heart, pressing against the wild, frantic pounding beneath my ribs. The tension shattered, replaced by a surge of awe so potent it left me dizzy. A slow, incredulous smile spread across my face, one I didn’t try to suppress. No one was here to see it.

“Hayeee, meri jaan, meri sunshine…” The whisper left my lips, reverent and filled with a love so vast it felt like it could flood this entire city.

There she was. Not a damsel. Not a princess waiting in a tower. She was a warrior queen in a simple cotton kurta, dispensing justice with her own hands. My sunshine had a tempest inside her, and watching it unleash was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed.

I watched the rest on a loop, my anger melting into a warm, overwhelming pride. She cleaned the boy’s face with her dupatta—her dupatta, now stained with his pain and her courage. She faced down the cowering owner with a quiet authority that would make my boardroom adversaries tremble. And then, with a tenderness that made my own eyes sting, she led the child away.

I didn’t need to see more. I knew exactly where her heart would lead her next. To a pipe in a garbage dump. To a silent little sister. To a responsibility she would make her own without a second thought. Because that was who she was. That was the soul I had fallen for four years ago.

With a final, lingering look at her paused image on the screen- her profile fierce and compassionate- I shut the laptop. The sudden silence in the room was deafening. I leaned back in my leather chair, the headrest cool against my neck, and closed my eyes.

A smile, soft and utterly unbidden, still played on my lips.

That’s my Eraya.

Four years. It felt like a lifetime and a single heartbeat all at once. I was a man who commanded boardrooms, negotiated multi-crore deals, and bore the weight of a legacy older than this nation. Yet, I had spent those years secretly, completely, and irrevocably in love with a woman who didn’t know I breathed the same air.

It was a madness. A beautiful, desperate madness.

It began with a glimpse. A flash of a blue kurta in the rain-drenched temple grounds of Dehradun. Her hair was a messy, escaping ponytail, her feet bare on the wet stone. She was handing her umbrella to a shivering old beggar, then distributing food to a cluster of street children, laughing as the rain soaked her to the skin. She was sunshine breaking through monsoon clouds. And I, standing sheltered and anonymous in the temple corridor, felt my world tilt off its axis. I drowned in her then, not in the rain, but in the sheer, unadulterated goodness she radiated.

I never approached her. Something in her untamed joy felt sacred, a moment I had no right to interrupt. But I was lost. From that day, a part of my soul remained tethered to her.

I had my ways. Discreet, anonymous. I learned she worked at an NGO. So, every month, like a silent prayer, substantial donations would find their way there—untraceable, nameless. It wasn’t just for her. It was for the light she fought for. But it was because of her. The thought of her struggling for funds, of that light dimming even slightly, was unbearable.

My phone vibrated on the desk, shattering the reverie.

The caller ID flashed—my man in Dehradun. My heart, which had just settled into a warm, adoring rhythm, immediately began a frantic, hammering tattoo against my ribs.

This is it. The thread connecting my silent world to hers.

I took a deep, steadying breath that did nothing to calm the storm inside. “Please,” I whispered to any god that might be listening, “Just this. I’ll ask for nothing else in this life. Just let her consider me.”

I pressed the speaker button. “Report.”

“Sir, the proposal has been delivered to the Sharma residence. The family was… receptive. Surprised, but respectful. They have taken the biodata. The girl, was not home at the time. They said they will discuss it and inform us by tomorrow if she is willing to meet.”

Willing to meet. The words were both a lifeline and a torture device. My Eraya, who rejected proposals as a matter of principle. Would mine be just another file she closed?

“Good,” I managed, my voice thankfully steady. Then, the memory of the video surged back, the rage returning in a cold wave.

“Listen. The owner of that dhaba in the video. I want a formal complaint filed against him. Child labor. Assault. Use every channel. I want him punished. He doesn’t get to breathe the same air as that boy after what he did. Understood?”

“Understood, Sir.”

“And the two new children at the NGO- the boy, Luv, and his sister. Send everything they need. Clothes, school supplies, a proper bedding set. In fact,” I added, the idea forming as I spoke,
“send enough for all the children at the NGO. New uniforms, books, stationery. A fresh start for everyone.”

“Right away, Sir.”

“And remember,” I said, my tone dropping into something low and serious. “Absolute anonymity. No one can know where this is coming from. Especially not her.”

“Of course, Sir. It will be handled as a charitable trust donation. No traces.”

I ended the call, the gears in my mind shifting from protector to strategist. The first move was made. The proposal was in her hands. Now, the second, more delicate operation: my own family.

I pulled out my wallet, a simple, sleek black leather piece. Flipping it open, my fingers brushed against the hidden compartment. There, worn at the edges from four years of secret devotion, was her photograph. A candid shot from a newspaper article about her NGO’s tree-planting drive. She was smiling, mud on her cheeks, life in her hands. My personal talisman. My silent rebellion against the fate everyone else had charted for me.

Only Aryan, my best friend, had stumbled upon this secret last month. He’d found me at the cottage I’d bought for her- a place I visited when the weight of my world grew too heavy, just to feel closer to where I’d first seen her. He’d seen the photo, the look on my face, and the teasing had died on his lips.

“You’re serious,” he’d said, stunned. And I’d told him everything. The four-year silence, the anonymous donations, the quiet, all-consuming love for a stranger.

“That’s why you said no to every match,” he’d realized, his expression shifting to one of bewildered respect.

Now, it was time to tell the world. Or at least, my family.

I made another call, this one shorter. “Is it done on our end?”

“Yes, Sir. The girl’s biodata and photograph have been formally delivered to the Ranawat residence as an incoming marriage proposal, as per your instructions.”

A grim smile touched my lips. My family would be in shock. For years, I’d been the immovable wall, rejecting every “suitable” alliance with a cold, final “no.” I’d convinced them I had no interest in marriage. And now, I was the one initiating a proposal to a girl from a simple, middle-class family with no political or business lineage. A girl who worked in the social sector. To them, it would seem like insanity.

I stood up, squaring my shoulders. The most challenging negotiation of my life awaited me not in a corporate lounge, but in my own ancestral home. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that no one who truly saw Eraya could deny her. Her spirit was her pedigree, her compassion her crown. But convincing a family steeped in centuries of tradition would require all my resolve.

As I left the sterile quiet of my office for the opulent, expectation-heavy halls of the haveli, one prayer echoed in my soul, a mantra set to the rhythm of my heartbeat:

Just let her say yes to meeting me. Just once. Let her look into my eyes. If she sees me and finds me wanting, then ok... and if she doesn't want me...I will vanish. I will let her fly free, and I will love her silently until my last breath. But please… give me a chance to try.

The fate of my heart, held captive for four years by a woman in a blue kurta, now rested in her hands. And I, Vidhart Singh Ranawat, who feared nothing, was utterly, beautifully terrified.

✧

The grand living room of the Ranawat haveli was usually a space of formal quiet, a museum of our legacy where conversations were measured and tones were hushed. Tonight, it hummed with an electric, disbelieving energy that seemed to vibrate off the ancient sandstone walls and the priceless Persian rug beneath my feet.

I sat in my usual high-backed armchair, a throne by design, feeling more like a defendant in the dock. The cream-colored envelope containing her biodata lay like a sacred artifact on the low marble table around which my universe had convened.

Dadaji occupied the central sofa, his posture erect, a king holding court. His sharp, hawk-like gaze was fixed not on me, but on the photograph in his hands—the same one that lived in my wallet. His expression was inscrutable, a mask carved from generations of authority. Beside him, my father and chote Papa were engaged in low, urgent whispers, their heads bent together, casting occasional, bewildered glances my way.

On the opposite sofa, the heart of the room beat. My mother and choti Maa sat close, passing the biodata sheet between them. Mom’s fingers traced the lines of Eraya’s smiling face in the NGO photo, her own face a canvas of tender hope and cautious amazement.

“Bohot pyari lag rahi hai,” Mom murmured, her voice soft with a mother’s instinct. “Vidhart, kam se kam iss ladki se toh milne ke liye haan kar do. Tum chahte the koi simple, middle-class family ki ladki… dekho, destiny ne khud bhej diya yeh rishta. Ek baar mil lo, beta.”

(She looks so lovely,
Vidhart, at least agree to meet this girl. You wanted a girl from a simple, middle-class family... look, destiny itself has sent this proposal. Just meet her once, son.)

Her plea was a gentle knife twisting in my gut. If only she knew I was already mapped in the constellations of that girl’s smile.

My attention was snatched by the younger corner of chaos. My sister Siya, and our cousins Vikrant and Aaradhya were huddled around Siya’s laptop, their faces lit by the screen. They were scrolling through photos—her photos. From her NGO’s social media. Pictures of Eraya teaching children, painting walls, laughing under the sun.

“Wah!” Vikrant exclaimed, his voice cutting through the room’s tension with irreverent glee. He was massaging Siya’s shoulders like an enthusiastic butler. “Agar yeh hamari bhabhi bani, toh kitna solid hai! She’s a storm, man. A strong woman. Yeh toh hamare stoic bhaiya ko puri line mein laga dengi!”

(If she becomes our sister-in-law, that would be amazing! She's a force of nature, man. A strong woman. She'll put our stoic brother completely in line!)

Siya and Aaradhya burst into giggles. I shot him a glare that had made seasoned employees flinch. Vikrant merely winked, utterly immune.

Siya, ever the dramatic, flopped back against the couch. “Haan, bhai! Phir kab? Budhhe hoke shaadi karoge? Hamari bhi ummeed hai apne bhai ki shaadi mein dance karne ki!” She fluttered her eyelashes, playing the aggrieved sister.

(Yes, brother! When will it be then? Are you going to get married when you're old? We're also hoping to dance at our brother's wedding!)

A strange, nervous anticipation tightened my chest. This was my moment. The carefully laid trap was sprung, not by them, but by my own orchestration. I schooled my features into a mask of reluctant consideration, letting a beat of heavy silence fall.

Then, I spoke, my voice deliberately flat, as if surrendering to a minor inconvenience.

“Theek hai. Agar aap sabki itni ichcha hai… toh main mil lunga.”

(Okay. If you all want it so much... then I'll meet them.)

The effect was instantaneous and profound.

The quiet, urgent whispering between my father and uncle ceased abruptly. The soft murmuring from the mothers stopped. The giggles from the laptop corner died mid-breath.

Every single head in the room swiveled towards me. The air was sucked out, replaced by a vacuum of pure, stunned silence. My father’s jaw went slightly slack. My mother’s hand flew to her chest. Choti Maa’s eyes widened to saucers. Vikrant’s hands froze on Siya’s shoulders.

They stared as if I’d just announced I was joining a circus on Mars. As if the unmovable mountain had just agreed to take a casual stroll.

Only Dadaji reacted differently. He slowly lowered the photograph. A deep, knowing chuckle rumbled from his chest, a sound like distant thunder. His sharp eyes met mine over the rims of his reading glasses, and in that glance, I felt seen-not completely, but enough. He knew this was no reluctant acquiescence. He smelled the strategy.

“Vidhart,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. “Baad mein mere room mein aana. Tumse baat karni hai.”

I inclined my head, the respectful grandson. “Ji, Dadaji.”

As he rose and left the room with his slow, measured gait, the spell broke. A cacophony erupted.

“Tum sach keh rahe ho, Vidhart?” My father leaned forward, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. “Tum sachmuch haan kar rahe ho? Ya mujhe galatfehmi ho rahi hai?”

(Are you telling the truth, Vidhart?
Are you really saying yes? Or am I misunderstanding something?)

Chote Papa just started laughing, a hearty, relieved sound. “Arre bhaiya, didn't you hear? He said yes! You're not dreaming.”

Aaradhya clapped her hands, bouncing on the couch. “Bhaiya, please, iss ladki se shaadi ke liye bhi haan kar dena! Please, please!”

Inside, my soul screamed. ‘I only want to say yes to her! To no one else! This isn’t your wish, it’s my lifeline!’

I simply gave a stiff, single nod, the picture of a man bowing to family pressure.

My mother, ever the pragmatic one, brought a drizzle of reality to the soaring hopes. “Lekin pehle wahan se jawab aane do. Agar uss ladki ne kaha ki woh bhi milna chahti hai, tabhi baat aage badhegi. Hamare sochne se kuch nahi hoga.”

(But let's wait for a response from them first. The conversation will only move forward if the girl says she also wants to meet. Our thinking about it won't accomplish anything.)

Vikrant groaned, slapping his forehead. “Oh, God. Kahin aisa na ho… Hamesha bhaiya maana karte hain, iss baar unhone haan ki hai, toh koi unhe maan kar de!”

His offhand words were a poison-tipped arrow straight through my carefully constructed calm. What if it really happens? What if she says no?

A cold dread, sharper than any business failure, lanced through me. The image of her gentle but firm face, the one that could shut down a bully with a look, shaking her head ‘no’ to the very idea of me… it was a special kind of hell.

No. No. Please. Just let her meet me once. Let her at least know a man named Vidhart Singh Ranawat exists. That’s all I ask.

Then Siya, my romantic, dramatic sister, sighed dreamily. “Nahi, bhaiya, dekho na. Pehli baar Vidhart bhaiya ne shaadi ke liye ‘haan’ kaha hai. Toh agar unki destiny mein hai, toh Eraya Sharma hi banegi… Eraya Vidhart Singh Ranawat. My brother’s destined bride.”

(No, brother, look. This is the first time Vidhart brother has said 'yes' to marriage. So if it's in his destiny, then Eraya Sharma will be the one... Eraya Vidhart Singh Ranawat. My brother's destined bride.)

Eraya Vidhart Singh Ranawat.

The name, spoken aloud in this room that had echoed with titles and lineages for centuries, hit me with the force of a physical blow. It wasn’t just a name. It was a symphony. A promise. A completion of a sentence my heart had been writing for four lonely years.

My breath caught. For a second, the world blurred at the edges. I felt my heart, that steady, disciplined organ, give a wild, unmistakable skip. A warmth, fierce and blinding, spread from my core, threatening to melt the icy prince facade I wore.

My wife.

The words echoed in the silent chambers of my mind, a prayer and a claim all at once.

God… please. Please. Make Eraya mine. I will keep her safe, I will cherish her fire, I will build a world where her sunshine never dims. Just give her to me. I want to be… Vidhart Eraya Singh Ranawat.

Aaradhya’s voice piped up again, pulling me back. “Chalo, kal tak ka intezaar karte hain. Agar unhone bhaiya se milne ke liye haan kardi, toh… bhaiya, shaadi mein der mat karna. Mere New York wapas jaane se pehle shaadi kar lena!”

(Okay, let's wait until tomorrow. If they agree to meet my brother, then... brother, don't delay the wedding. Get married before I go back to New York!)

Vikrant joined in. “Haan, bhai! Please, mera last year hai London mein… lekin main chahta hoon abhi hi shaadi ho jaye dono ki! Phir jab main apni masters poori karke aauga, tab main bhabhi ke saath pura ‘fun mode’ mein rahoonga!”

Siya fake-pouted. “Oh, kahin tab tak main na chali jau!”

Aaradhya frowned. “Tu kahaan ja rahi hai? Tu toh yahin padh rahi hai!”

“Haha… aise hi… majak…” Siya stammered, waving her off.

I watched their familiar, loving banter-the easy laughter, the teasing, the open affection that was so different from my own reserved nature. They were vibrant, chaotic color. I was the stark, controlling lines of the sketch.

And Eraya… Eraya was the whole breathtaking painting. I ached, with a depth that startled me, to bring her into this chaos. To see her laugh with Siya, to have her reform Vikrant’s mischief with a look, to let her warmth thaw the last of my formal spaces.

My mother stood, clapping her hands softly. “Theek hai, bas. Ab dinner karo. Phir dekhenge kal kya hota hai.”

The family began to disperse, the buzz of excited speculation filling the room again. But I remained seated, trapped in the echo of a name.

Eraya Vidhart Singh Ranawat.

I closed my eyes for a brief second, letting the fantasy wash over me—her walking through these halls, her laughter replacing the quiet, her compassion softening the edges of our legacy.

The fear of her ‘no’ was a shadow, but the hope born from Siya’s words was a defiant, shining light.

The wait until tomorrow would be an eternity. Every second would be a hammer beating on the anvil of my fate. But for the first time, the weight I carried wasn’t just the burden of a kingdom. It was the terrifying, exhilarating weight of a possibility named Eraya. And I would bear it, minute by agonizing minute, until I knew if I was destined to be her king, or forever remain a lonely admirer in the shadows.

The heavy silence of Dadaji’s private chambers was a stark contrast to the animated living room. Here, the air was thick with the scent of old paper, sandalwood, and the quiet weight of generations. The only light came from a single brass lamp on the bedside table, casting long, dancing shadows on the shelves lined with leather-bound books. Dadaji sat propped against a mountain of cushions, a well-worn Premchand novel resting in his lap, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

He didn’t look up as I entered, but his presence filled the room. “Aa jao, Vidhart. Yahan baitho,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the stillness.

I walked in, the ornate carpet muffling my steps. Without a word, I settled on the floor at the foot of his massive teakwood bed, a gesture of respect ingrained since childhood. Gently, I began to massage his feet, the familiar ritual grounding me. The skin was papery, mapped with veins and the history of a long, commanding life.

The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged. It was Dadaji’s space, and he dictated its rhythm.

Finally, he closed his book with a soft thud and removed his glasses. His keen, hawk-like eyes, clouded slightly with age but missing nothing, fixed on me.

“Vidhart… yeh wahi ladki hai na?” he asked, his voice deceptively mild. “Jiske liye tum har rishta inkaar karte aaye ho ab tak?”

(Vidhart... isn't that the same girl?
The one for whom you've been rejecting every other relationship until now?)

My hands froze on his feet. A jolt of pure, cold adrenaline shot through me. How? My mind raced, scrambling for a plausible denial. I had been so careful, so meticulous in my secrecy.

I looked up, meeting his gaze, and found my voice stammering, betraying me.

“W-What, Dadaji? What are you saying?”

A slow, knowing smile spread across his weathered face. He shook his head, a mix of affection and exasperation.

“Vidhart, beta, main tumhara Dada hoon. Mujhe pata hai mera pota kab kya chhupa raha hai, aur kab kya nahi.” He leaned forward slightly, the light catching the silver in his hair.

(Vidhart, beta, I am your grandfather. I know when my grandson is hiding something and when he isn't.)

“Tumhe kya lagta hai, mujhe pata nahi chalega ki tumne sirf isi ladki se milne ke liye achanak ‘haan’ kyun kaha?” His voice softened. “Main jaanta hoon. Tum usey pyaar karte ho. Isi liye sabko mnaa krdiya.”

(What do you think, that I wouldn't figure out why you suddenly said 'yes' just to meet this girl?
I know. You love her. That's why you turned everyone else down.)

The facade shattered. The walls I built for four years crumbled under the weight of his gentle, all-seeing gaze. I couldn’t lie to him. Not here. Not about this. The truth felt like a confession, both terrifying and relieving.

I bowed my head, my voice dropping to a raw whisper.
“Ji, Dadaji. Main unse pyaar karta hoon. Aur main chahta hoon… ki agar meri shaadi ho, toh bas unhi se ho. Warna kisi aur se nahi.”

(Yes, Grandpa. I love her. And I want... that if I get married, it should only be to her. Otherwise, I won't marry anyone else.)

A deep, resonant chuckle escaped him. “Hmmm…” He let the sound hang, contemplating me.

“Lekin Vidhart… agar usne mna kar diya? Phir kya karoge?”

(But what if Vidharth... what if he refuses? What will you do then?)

I lifted my head, meeting his eyes with a determination that surprised even me. “Main usey zabardasti nahi karunga. Agar milne ke baad bhi unhone kaha ki woh mujhse shaadi nahi karna chahti… no problem.”

(I won't force her. If, even after meeting, she says she doesn't want to marry me... no problem.)

I took a shaky breath, the next words coming from the deepest, most unshakeable part of my soul.
“Lekin iska matlab yeh nahi ki main unse pyaar karna chhod doonga. Mera pyaar… sirf unhi ke liye hai.”

(But that doesn't mean I'll stop loving them. My love... is only for them.)

Dadaji studied me for a long, penetrating moment. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the quiet. “Agar usne shaadi se mana kar diya, toh tum kisi aur se shaadi karoge?”

(If she refuses to marry you, will you marry someone else?)

My answer was immediate, a headshake filled with finality. “Nahi. Kabhi nahi. Mere dil mein sirf ek hi ladki ke liye jagah hai. Woh hai Eraya. Ya toh woh… ya phir koi nahi.”

(No. Never. There's only room for one girl in my heart. That's Eraya. It's either her... or nobody.)

Another low chuckle, this one tinged with something like respect. “Hmmm… theek hai.” He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the worries of the world. “Phir dekhte hain woh ladki kya kehti hai. Kyonki woh koi aam ladki nahi hai, jiska sapna sirf shaadi karna ho. Uske sapne alag hain. Aur hume usnke sapno ko  izzat denge.”

(Then we'll see what that girl says. Because she's not just any ordinary girl whose only dream is to get married. Her dreams are different. And we will respect her dreams.)

A wave of gratitude washed over me. “Ji, Dadaji.”

“Accha, ab jaao, so jao. Aur prarthna karo ki woh tumse milne ke liye ‘haan’ kar de.”

(Okay, now go to sleep. And pray that she says 'yes' to meeting you.)

I managed a small, hopeful smile and nodded. As I began to rise, he spoke again, his tone shifting.

“Aryan kab tak wapas aayega Milan se?”

The change of topic was abrupt. I straightened, clearing my throat. “Dadaji, shayad isi mahine mein aa jaayega.”

“Haan. Apni shaadi se pehle usey wapas bula lo. Kitna kaam mein busy rahega…” A fleeting shadow of profound sadness passed over his face, so quick I would have missed it had I not known him so well. “…sirf apna dard chhupane ke liye.”

(Yes. Call him back before your wedding. He'll be so busy with work....just to hide his pain.)

My heart clenched for my best friend.
“Don't worry, Grandpa. He'll be at my wedding. I know him..”

Dadaji’s gaze grew distant. “I hope he finds a girl who will turn all his pain into happiness, who will give him all the love he deserves.”

“Ji,” I said softly, the sentiment echoing my own private wishes. “Main bhi yahi chahta hoon.” But how could he believe in love, when his own family showed him so little?

The thought was a familiar ache. He always said
“Lekin… jab mujhe apno ka pyaar hi nahi mila, toh koi ladhi hi kyun mujhe pyaar karegi?”

( But... when I didn't even receive love from my own family, why would any girl love me?)

Yet, a conviction steadied me. “But I know… someone will find him. He's a precious gem..”

“Accha. Good night”

I bowed slightly. “Good Night Dadaji.”
At the doorway, I paused, my hand on the heavy wood. I turned back, the words needing to be said.

“Dadaji… agar Eraya ne iss shaadi se mana kar diya… toh please ghar par meri shaadi ki kabhi baat na chale. Main… kabhi shadi nahi karunga.”

(Grandpa... if Eraya refuses this marriage... then please, let's never talk about my marriage at home again. I... will never get married.)

Dadaji said nothing. He simply looked at me, his eyes holding a universe of understanding, worry, and resignation. He didn’t agree or disagree. He just absorbed my vow. I closed the door softly, the finality of my own words echoing in the marble corridor as I made my way to my room.

My sanctuary was a study in controlled elegance—dark woods, minimalist decor, everything in its precise place. But tonight, it felt like a cage for my racing heart.

I went through my nightly routine mechanically: a long, scalding shower meant to wash away the tension. As I stood before the full-length mirror in my walk-in closet, water droplets clinging to my skin, I regarded my reflection—the broad shoulders, the defined torso, the physical shell of Vidhart Singh Ranawat.

A sudden, soft chuckle escaped me. I have a habit of sleep shirtless.

Oh, God. If Eraya says yes… Vidhart, you will have to break this habit of sleeping shirtless.

The thought was absurdly domestic, thrillingly intimate. I didn’t want her to feel an ounce of discomfort, not even unconsciously. Her peace, her sense of safety in any space we shared, would be my paramount law. I will never touch her until she wants.

From now on, I decided, the commitment settling in my bones. I’ll start getting used to it. With a resolve that felt both silly and profoundly serious, I walked to a drawer, pulled out a soft, grey cotton t-shirt, and pulled it over my head. The fabric felt strange, a barrier against the night air. For you, Eraya. Please… just say yes.

My feet carried me to the large, built-in almirah. I opened the heavy doors, my fingers brushing past rows of meticulously arranged formal wear until they found the hidden panel at the back, a secret compartment known only to me.

From it, I drew out a simple, unmarked wooden box. My heart began its familiar, frantic dance.

Sitting on the floor, my back against the cool wood, I lifted the lid.

The first thing that greeted me was a sketch. Charcoal on thick, textured paper. Her face. Captured from memory the very night I returned from Dehradun four years ago, a restless energy possessing my hands. The messy ponytail, the curve of her smile as she laughed in the rain, the kindness in her eyes that the graphite could only hint at. It was imperfect, done by a man driven by emotion, not skill. But it was her. It was my holy grail.

Beneath it, neatly bound with a black silk ribbon, were stacks of letters. Dozens upon dozens of them. I had written 1,264 letters to Eraya Sharma. Not one had ever been sent.

Pages filled with the mundane and the monumental, all filtered through the prism of her. Some were here. Others were hidden in the library behind a false panel of books. A significant stash lay in my Milan penthouse, in the room where I had drawn that first portrait in a feverish, lonely night, unable to understand why a stranger’s face haunted me so completely.

I ran a trembling hand through my damp hair, a helpless smile touching my lips.

Kya pyaar mein log sacch much aise ho jaate hain? Was this what love did? It turned a king into a secret poet, a strategist into a hoarder of daydreams.

I carefully placed the sketch back, my fingers lingering on the paper as if I could touch the memory. I closed the box, sealing my four-year-long soliloquy back into darkness, and returned it to its hiding place.

Finally, I collapsed onto my bed, the crisp linen cool against my skin. The wait for tomorrow was a physical ache, a tight coil in my stomach.

Almost by instinct, I reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, and there she was—my wallpaper. A stolen, sun-drenched moment of Eraya smiling at a child, her whole being alight with a joy so pure it made my chest hurt.

I pressed the phone to my heart, over the t-shirt that was my first promise to her. In the profound silence of my royal prison, I whispered her name into the darkness, a prayer, a plea, and the only truth I had known for years.

“Eraya…”

The single word hung in the air, a fragile bridge between my world of silent devotion and the terrifying, glorious possibility of a tomorrow that included her.