After 2 days...

The lunch had ended, but the silence afterward felt far louder than the clinking of spoons and cautious pleasantries exchanged between strangers who might soon become family. The Sharma household, usually humming with evening rituals and soft chatter, now felt still-as though even the walls were holding their breath.

In night Eraya sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft cotton of her kurta wrinkling beneath her as the fan spun overhead with a low, rhythmic creak. Her room was bathed in the mellow glow of the bedside lamp, the kind of light that blurred the edges of reality and left space for thoughts to stretch and take shape.

Her parents had gone to bed early, drained by the emotional weight of the unexpected proposal. She could still hear her mother's hushed words from earlier echoing in her ears-"He seems like a good man, Eraya. But it's your choice. It has to be your choice."

Yet here she was, wide awake, her heart tapping steadily against her ribs like a question she didn't know how to answer.

Vidhart Singh Ranawat.

The name didn't feel unfamiliar. She had heard it before, spoken with a certain reverence by her father during conversations she had only half-listened to. A name tied to royalty. Power. Legacy.

But tonight... it wasn't just a name. It was a man. One who had sat across from her in the living room, speaking politely to her parents while his eyes-deep, unreadable eyes-had paused just a little too long on her face. There had been no arrogance in his gaze, only something still and searching, like he was trying to find something in her before even speaking a word. Today he meet with her family, they both don't talk personally. Because she was not sure that she is ready to talk to him in alone.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for a second longer.

Then, as though carried by an invisible force, she typed:

"Vidhart Singh Ranawat Jaipur."

The screen instantly flooded with search results. Headlines. Articles. Images. Videos.

And then-him.

The first image made her breath catch. Vidhart, dressed in a deep navy bandhgala that fit him like second skin, stood beside an older man-his grandfather, she assumed-beneath a chandelier so grand it looked like starlight suspended in crystal. A silver brooch in the shape of a lion adorned his chest-the Ranawat crest. He looked regal. Composed. As if carved from centuries of tradition and silence.

She scrolled further, heart ticking faster with each photograph.

There he was stepping out of a luxury car in Delhi, flanked by a discreet security detail, his tailored charcoal suit impossibly sharp.

Another showed him at a polo match, gripping the reins of a chestnut horse with practiced ease, the crowd behind him a blur. Then a candid photo from an art exhibition-he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, observing a painting with quiet intensity.

Her eyes darted to the headlines that danced around the images:

"Rajasthan's Crown Without a Throne: Meet Vidhart Singh Ranawat"

"From Oxford Scholar to Heritage Reformer"

"The Silent Prince: Jaipur's Most Elusive Royal"

She clicked on a video, fingers trembling.

The screen lit up with an old interview from London. A younger Vidhart, hair slightly longer, eyes just as sharp. The host asked a question about legacy and the pressure of royal expectations.

He leaned forward, voice calm, deliberate.

"Legacy isn't about ownership," he said.

"It's about responsibility. I didn't inherit a crown. I inherited a promise."

Eraya sat still, the words echoing long after the video ended. There was no pretension in his voice. No grandeur. Just a man who had accepted the weight of a world that many would envy but few could understand.

She scrolled again.

And then-a different photo. One that made her pause.

No gala.

No suit.

No cameras.

It was taken in a modest hospital in Udaipur. Vidhart, wearing a plain white kurta, sat on the edge of a hospital bed, holding a small child whose arm was bandaged. He was smiling-softly, gently. Like a man who had nothing to prove.

In that moment, he didn't look like royalty. He looked human.

Eraya exhaled slowly, her throat tightening with something she couldn't name.

She closed the laptop gently, her fingers resting on the lid as if it might suddenly fly open again. The hum of the fan, the ticking of the wall clock, even the distant bark of a dog outside-all faded beneath the storm in her mind.

Why her?

She wasn't royalty. She wasn't sculpted in poise or raised in opulence. She wore silver jhumkas, not diamonds. She taught underprivileged children how to write their names, how to dream. Her sarees smelled like sandal soap, not designer perfume.

And yet... he had chosen her.

The thought sent a strange warmth through her chest. It thrilled her. It terrified her.

She lay back, eyes fixed on the fan spinning above, her world slowly tilting toward a future she hadn't dared to imagine.

Meanwhile, at the Ranawat Palace in Jaipur...

Vidhart stood on the edge of his terrace, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the moonlit garden below. The stillness of the palace grounds felt familiar, almost sacred. The ancient peepal tree swayed gently in the breeze, its leaves whispering secrets he could almost hear.

Behind him, his phone buzzed for the fifth time-emails, meeting reminders, updates from the family office. He didn't turn around.

His thoughts weren't here. They were with her.

With Eraya.

He could still see her-head tilted, brows slightly furrowed, lips parting ever so slightly when their eyes had met. There had been a storm in her that reminded him of monsoon skies-dark, unpredictable, beautiful.

She didn't wear masks like others in his world. She didn't smile to please or posture to impress. She was grounded, curious, unsure... real.

He remembered her hands. Small, delicate-but with traces of ink near the nails and a faint scar across one knuckle. The hands of someone who created. Who taught. Who healed. Today only he and his father go to dehradun to meet her family. And they told eraya father if she wants so they both will meet again.

And then the question returned, clawing at the edge of his thoughts:

What if she says no?

It wasn't the rejection that unnerved him-it was the fear of being misread. Of being seen only as the royal heir, the untouchable symbol of legacy and protocol. Not the man behind it.

Not the teenager who took on a throne of expectations while still grieving. Not the man who had watched Eraya's NGO from a distance for three years, admiring her, and saying nothing.

"She should know," he whispered into the darkness.

"Not just who I am. But who I want to be-with her."

Flashback: Vidhart Convincing Dadaji

The fire crackled softly in the Ranawat study, its amber glow washing over rows of old books and black-and-white portraits. A glass of warm milk sat untouched beside the chair where Dadaji sat, wrapped in his shawl like a monk in quiet contemplation.

Vidhart stepped in, shoulders squared, but a quiet weight in his eyes.

"You're restless," Dadaji said without looking up.

"That only happens when something matters."

Vidhart didn't speak. Instead, he walked forward and, in an act that shocked even himself, dropped to one knee beside his grandfather's chair-not as the heir to a royal name, but as a grandson seeking something simple. Understanding.

"I've made my decision," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It's her."

Dadaji looked at him then, his wise eyes unreadable.

"Because she's beautiful?"

"No." Vidhart shook his head.

"Because she's true."

He pulled a photograph from his pocket, worn at the edges. Dadaji unfolded it gently.

A girl-hair messy, sleeves rolled up, surrounded by children whose faces shone with laughter. She pointed at a page in a book, her smile natural and wide, her kurta stained with Holi colors.

"I saw her by accident. But after that... I saw her everywhere. In my quiet moments. In my solitude. And I waited, Dadaji. I waited four years. Not because I was unsure... but because I wanted to ask only when I knew I could be the man she deserves."

Dadaji said nothing. He simply watched the photo, his fingers smoothing the creases.

"I'll build a bridge from my world to hers if I have to-brick by brick. She doesn't need to become royal. She already walks like a queen. I just want to walk beside her."

For a long moment, the silence lingered.

Then Dadaji reached out, resting a hand on Vidhart's shoulder, voice rough with emotion.

"You remind me of your grandmother," he said softly.

"She wasn't born into royalty either. But she carried herself with dignity, and ruled this palace with compassion. If Eraya is your truth... then go to her. And wait. Even the deepest love takes time to bloom."

Back in Dehradun...

Eraya's eyes fluttered shut.

And for the first time that night, she didn't feel out of place in the idea of a palace. It wasn't gilded halls or chandeliers that filled her dream.

It was the quiet image of a man standing at the end of a bridge made just for her-waiting not as a prince, but as someone willing to meet her halfway.

And that... changed everything.