POV: Eraya Sharma

The dinner had ended, but the evening’s surreal calm clung to Eraya like morning mist. She sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft yellow light of the lamp casting shadows over her laptop screen. Her parents had gone to sleep early, too emotionally drained from the day's whirlwind. Eraya, however, was wide awake, her mind buzzing with questions.

She had heard the name before—Vidhart Singh Ranawat. Her father had spoken it with a mix of reverence and awe. But who was he really? Beyond the polished manners and quiet intensity he carried during the family meeting, beyond the way his gaze had flickered to her just a little longer than necessary.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating.

Then she typed it: Vidhart Singh Ranawat Jaipur.

Within seconds, a flood of search results took over her screen.

The first image took her breath away—Vidhart in a deep navy bandhgala, standing beside his grandfather, the Ranawat crest glinting from a brooch on his chest. His expression was calm, composed… unreadable. He looked like a man sculpted from marble and silence.

Another photo showed him stepping out of a luxury car in a tailored suit, sunglasses shielding his eyes, a security team discreetly positioned nearby. There were candid shots at royal charity events, ribbon-cutting ceremonies, art exhibitions in Delhi, even polo matches.

The headlines were a dizzying blur:

“The Heir to the Ranawat Legacy”
“From Oxford to Jaipur: How Vidhart Singh Modernized a Legacy Empire”
“Royalty Redefined: Meet Rajasthan’s Most Eligible Bachelor”

She clicked on a video. An interview recorded years ago in London. The reporter asked about taking over the family businesses so young.

Vidhart had leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth and steady.
“Legacy isn’t about ownership—it’s about responsibility. I didn’t inherit a crown. I inherited a promise.”

Eraya blinked. It didn’t sound rehearsed. It sounded… sincere.

She scrolled further. The press loved him—stoic, regal, aloof. A man of few words and fewer public appearances. Fashion blogs gushed about his understated style. Yet, amidst all the curated perfection, one photo made her stop.

It wasn’t from a gala or a polo event.

It was from a small hospital in Udaipur. No suit. No entourage. Just Vidhart, in a plain white kurta, cradling a child recovering from surgery. His smile was soft, warm—utterly unguarded.

Eraya stared at it.

In that photo, he didn’t look like a prince. He looked human.

She closed her laptop gently, her fingers trembling slightly. She lay back on her pillow and stared up at the whirring fan overhead.

What did he see in her? She didn’t belong to that world of curated grandeur. She taught children how to read. She wore jhumkas made by artisans, not diamonds. She didn’t know how to glide through a ballroom or greet diplomats.

And yet… he’d chosen her.

That thought both terrified and thrilled her.

Meanwhile, across Jaipur…

Vidhart stood at the edge of his terrace, gazing out at the moonlit garden below. The palace grounds were silent, save for the rustle of peepal leaves and the distant song of crickets.

Inside his study, his phone buzzed with business alerts—stock updates, partnership proposals, schedules for the next charity fundraiser. He ignored them all.

His thoughts were in Dehradun.

With her.

Eraya.

He had seen it in her eyes—the flicker of uncertainty, the strength behind her polite smile, the fire she tried to hide. She wasn’t like the other girls he’d met in their curated world. She hadn’t grown up under chandeliers. Her confidence came not from lineage, but from purpose.

He remembered her hands. She had the hands of someone who worked. Who created. Who nurtured.

He closed his eyes.

“What if she says no?”

The thought had haunted him more than he admitted, even to himself.

He wasn’t afraid of rejection. He was afraid of being unknown—of her seeing only the palace, the name, the weight of legacy… and not the man behind it.

Not the boy who still missed his mother’s voice.
Not the young heir who had built walls of steel around himself.
Not the man who had quietly followed her NGO’s work for three years without ever reaching out.

“She should know,” he murmured to himself.

“Who I am. But also… who I want to be—with her.”

He close his eyes and think how he convinced his dadaji-

"Flashback - Vidhart Convincing Dadaji"

The soft crackle of the fireplace filled the study, throwing flickers of amber light across the ancient wooden shelves and fading portraits of Ranawat ancestors. The scent of sandalwood lingered, familiar and comforting, like history breathing in the walls.

Dadaji sat with his shawl wrapped tightly, a small glass of warm milk untouched by his side. He glanced up when Vidhart entered—his usual calm not betrayed by even a flicker of surprise.

“You’re restless,” Dadaji remarked, setting his book aside. “That only happens when something matters.”

Vidhart stood for a long moment, saying nothing. Then, finally, he crossed the room and knelt by Dadaji’s chair. He wasn’t a prince in that moment. Just a grandson.

“I’ve made my decision,” he said quietly. “It’s her.”

Dadaji studied him for a moment. “Because she’s beautiful?”

“No,” Vidhart answered instantly. “Because she’s real.”

He pulled something from his pocket—a photograph, folded carefully. Not a portrait of Eraya in any glamorous moment, but a candid image. A photo taken years ago, from afar. She was crouched next to a group of children, their faces lit with laughter. Her hair had slipped from her braid, her kurta stained with colors. She was pointing at something in a book, utterly absorbed.

Dadaji unfolded the photo with care, his brows lifting.

“I saw her that day by chance. But I kept seeing her… in my thoughts, in the quiet between meetings, in the silence after the applause.” Vidhart's voice trembled slightly. “And I waited. I waited years, Dadaji—not because I doubted, but because I wanted to be worthy when I finally asked for her hand.”

“And now?” Dadaji asked.

“Now I don’t care about what society says, or whether she understands our world fully. I’ll build a bridge from mine to hers if I have to, stone by stone.”

There was a pause.

Then Vidhart added, almost in a whisper, “She doesn’t need to become royalty. She already wears grace like a crown. I only want to walk beside her.”

Dadaji’s eyes glistened with unshed emotion. He reached forward, resting a weathered hand on his grandson’s shoulder.

“You remind me of your grandmother,” he murmured. “She wasn’t royal by blood, either. But she ruled this palace with kindness and courage. If Eraya is your heart’s truth… then go to her. And be patient. Even love that is destined takes time to bloom.”

.

.

Back in Dehradun, Eraya's eyes fluttered shut.

In her dreams, the palace didn't feel cold or distant. It shimmered, soft and golden, like something waiting to be discovered.

And in the center of it, not a stranger.
But a man watching her with quiet reverence.
Waiting.