The early morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of the Sharma household, casting soft golden patterns across the cream-colored walls. Yet, the warmth it brought did little to lift the heaviness that lingered like fog in the living room. The silence was thick, the kind that wasn't peaceful but contemplative with unsaid thoughts and unanswered questions.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Sharma moved quietly, setting the breakfast table with practiced grace. The clink of plates and spoons filled the space with a semblance of routine, but there was no mistaking the hesitance in her motions. She looked toward the living room every few seconds, as if expecting the silence to break with a storm.

At the table, Eraya sat with her hands neatly clasped in her lap. Her eyes were lowered, fixed on the edge of the tablecloth, tracing its embroidered pattern absentmindedly. Across from her, Mr. Sharma sat with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a newspaper folded but unread in front of him. His gaze hadn't left his daughter's face since she walked into the room.

The air between them vibrated with unspoken tension. And finally, he spoke-his voice calm, but edged with concern.

"He seems like a good man," he began, adjusting his glasses,

"but that's not always enough, Eraya. If you don't want this, then we are ok with it. Because I know for you, your independence is important."

She met his gaze with quiet resolve, though her voice was a mere whisper.

"I know, Papa."

She paused, trying to gather the chaos of thoughts swirling in her mind into words.

"But he wasn't what I expected. He was... gentle. Thoughtful. Not arrogant or entitled, like I feared someone from that world might be."

Mr. Sharma's jaw tightened ever so slightly.

"It's not about arrogance," he said slowly,

"it's about lifestyle. People like him... they live with customs we can't pretend to understand. Royal families don't marry for love. They marry for legacy, for name. They belong to tradition before they belong to themselves."

From the doorway, her younger sister stood silently, hugging the wall, eyes wide with curiosity but wisely choosing not to intrude. Mrs. Sharma approached with a steaming cup of tea and placed it gently in front of Eraya, brushing a soothing hand along her back before retreating again to the shadows of the room.

"I know how much you value independence," Mr. Sharma continued, voice lower now.

"I've always tried to raise you to choose your path, not be pushed into someone else's mold. But what if they expect you to become someone you're not? What if... the palace swallows who you are?"

Eraya gripped the tea cup tighter, the warmth of the porcelain grounding her.

"I don't think he does," she said. Her voice steadied with memory.

"He... he noticed things. He asked about the children at one of the NGO he visit here, I saw his interview. He remembered Meera's story-her drawing, the sunflower she painted for her mother. No one remembers things like that unless they care."

Her father tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with contemplation. "And what did your heart say?"

She inhaled deeply, the words catching in her throat.

"That I was scared," she admitted.

"But not uncomfortable. He made me feel... seen. Not watched. Not evaluated. Just... seen."

A heavy silence stretched between them, fragile and uncertain. The ticking of the clock on the wall became loud in its absence of conversation. Eraya's eyes drifted to a small photo frame on the side table-a snapshot from Holi at the NGO. Children grinned wildly, colors smeared across their cheeks and clothes, a portrait of raw joy.

Her chest tightened.

She had always imagined love would come with adventure, passion, defiance. She never thought it would arrive wrapped in the folds of an arranged proposal, sent by someone she barely knew but somehow already understood.

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Jaipur - That Afternoon

The golden sandstone walls of the Ranawat estate glowed under the bright afternoon sun, but inside the palace, the air was cool and still. Vidhart stood barefoot in the center of his study, his thoughts louder than the world around him. The polished marble floor felt cold beneath his feet, grounding him amidst the storm of emotions building in his chest.

The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the corners of the room, a trace of the incense his mother had lit during morning prayer. Outside the arched window, birds chirped in the garden, unaware of the gravity clinging to the royal corridors.

Vidhart's fingers twitched at his sides. He had never been this uncertain-not in business, not in politics, not even in the boardrooms of power where deals were made and broken. But here, in matters of the heart, he was learning that vulnerability was its own kind of courage.

He admired Mr. Sharma, despite the man's wary silence. There was integrity in the way he spoke, even in his doubts. And now, more than ever, Vidhart understood the weight of what he was asking-not just for a daughter's hand, but for a father's trust.

He moved to the antique desk and pulled out a sheet of hand-crafted ivory paper, the edges gilded with a delicate gold filigree. He smoothed it out slowly and reached for his pen.

Then, he began to write.

Respected Mr. Sharma,

I know we come from different worlds. I won't pretend otherwise. The life I lead-steeped in legacy and bound by tradition-might seem distant from yours. But I have come to believe that understanding begins with honesty, and so I offer you mine.

I don't see Eraya as a title or a name to be added to a lineage. I see her as she is-strong, kind, unshaken by grandeur. She speaks with fire in her eyes, acts with compassion in her hands, and listens with the kind of grace that humbles me.

I do not wish to take her away from you. I wish to walk beside her, and in doing so, grow close to you all-as a family, not just through a marriage, but through trust.

If you have doubts, ask me. If you have fears, voice them. I will not answer with tradition or title, but as a man who simply wants the chance to earn your daughter's love-and your faith.

Sincerely,

Vidhart Singh Ranawat

He set the pen down and re-read the letter, the weight of each word sinking into his bones. Whether or not he ever sent it, writing it had clarified something within him. This wasn't just a proposal-it was a promise. A seed of something real, planted in a world where real things were often masked by ceremony. But he didn't send that letter to him. He placed that in a box.

For the first time that day, he allowed himself to hope.
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.

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Dehradun - That Evening

The sky had turned a deep shade of violet as twilight descended over the hills of Dehradun. A soft breeze rustled the leaves, carrying with it the faint smell of rain and earth.

Mr. Sharma stood alone on the balcony, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The stars were beginning to blink into view-each one distant, each one ancient.

He didn't turn when he heard footsteps behind him. He didn't need to.

Eraya joined him in silence, standing close enough for comfort but leaving space for thought.

"He reminds me of your grandfather in some ways," her father said at last, his voice nearly lost to the wind.

Eraya turned to look at him, surprise flickering in her eyes.

"Really?"

"Your Nana never chased power. Never needed people to bow to him. But when he loved..."

His voice trailed off for a moment, before returning quieter.

"He loved with his whole heart. Unshakable. Steady."

He looked at her then-really looked.

"If this young man... if he is even half the man your grandfather was, and if you believe he sees you-not just your face in a royal frame but your soul beneath it-then I will trust you to choose."

A lump formed in her throat as tears stung the back of her eyes. She nodded, unable to speak.

Mr. Sharma reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn velvet pouch. He placed it gently in her palm. Inside lay a silver ring-her grandfather's. Modest, but timeless. A symbol of strength passed quietly across generations.

That night, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Eraya held the ring in her hand and closed her eyes. The path ahead was still unknown. But for the first time, it didn't terrify her.
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.
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Elsewhere, in Jaipur, Vidhart stood beneath the stars, staring at the letter he had written.

And across the miles, between two cities and two hearts, a quiet thread was woven-delicate, yes, but resilient.

It was the start of something new.

A beginning not marked by trumpets or rituals, but by honesty, respect, and a seed of something deeper than either of them had dared to name.

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