POV: Mixed (Eraya and Vidhart)

The morning sun filtered through the curtains of the Sharma household, but the warmth did little to ease the tension that settled in the living room like a thick fog. Plates clinked half-heartedly as Eraya’s mother arranged breakfast, but no one was truly hungry. Eraya sat across from her father, her hands clasped in her lap, her mind still replaying last night’s dinner like an overplayed melody.

Mr. Sharma adjusted his glasses, his eyes never leaving his daughter. “He seems like a good man, but that’s not enough, Eraya.”

“I know, Papa,” she replied softly, trying to hold his gaze. “But he wasn’t what I expected. He was… gentle. Thoughtful. Not arrogant.”

Her father’s expression remained unreadable. “It’s not about arrogance. It’s about lifestyle. Royal families don’t just marry for love, beta. They live in another world, with rules we don’t even understand.”

Her younger sister peeked in from the doorway but wisely said nothing. Mrs. Sharma hovered nearby, offering Eraya a cup of tea with a quiet pat on her back.

“You know how I feel about tradition,” her father continued. “I’ve never believed in grandeur for the sake of status. But what if they expect you to become someone you’re not?”

“I don’t think he does,” Eraya said. “He… he noticed things. He asked about the children at the NGO. He remembered the story of Meera’s drawing. Who else would care about that?”

Her father leaned back, letting out a slow sigh. “What did your heart say?”

“That I was scared,” she admitted, “but not uncomfortable.”

A silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain. Eraya looked away for a moment, her gaze catching on a small photo frame on the table—one from a festival at her NGO, the kids smiling widely with paint on their cheeks. Her chest tightened. She never thought marriage would come wrapped in confusion and royal proposal letters.

Vidhart’s POV – That Afternoon

The day in Jaipur was bright, yet Vidhart felt a cloud of anticipation weighing on his shoulders. He paced his study, the marble floor cold beneath his bare feet. The soft ticking of the antique clock echoed in the room, a rhythmic reminder of time slipping by. A faint scent of sandalwood lingered from the incense his mother lit that morning.

He knew this part of the process would be the most delicate—winning over her family, especially her father.

He respected Mr. Sharma already. The man was composed, thoughtful, and clearly protective of his daughters. Vidhart could see where Eraya got her sense of grounded wisdom.

But he also understood the doubt. If roles were reversed, wouldn’t he feel the same?

He sat at his desk and pulled out a sheet of hand-crafted stationery, running his fingers along the gold-embossed border. Then he began to write:

Respected Mr. Sharma,

I know we come from different worlds. I won’t pretend otherwise. But I see Eraya—not as a future queen or an ornament to my legacy—but as someone who speaks with fire in her eyes and purpose in her steps. She isn’t someone I want to change. She’s someone I want to learn from. I don’t want to take her away from you—I want to grow close to you all, as a family.

If you have questions, ask me. If you have concerns, share them. I will not answer with tradition or title. I will answer as a man who wants to earn your daughter’s love—and your trust.

Sincerely,
Vidhart

He folded the letter, knowing he might never send it. But the act of writing it grounded him. A sense of purpose filled the quiet room, and in that moment, he allowed himself to hope—not just for a ‘yes,’ but for a beginning.

Back in Dehradun – Evening

After dinner, Mr. Sharma stood on the balcony alone, arms crossed. Eraya joined him quietly, both of them watching the stars emerge one by one.

“He reminds me of your grandfather in some ways,” her father said at last.

Eraya tilted her head. “Really?”

“Your Nana never chased power. But when he loved… it was with his whole heart.” He looked at her then. “If that boy is half the man your grandfather was, and if you believe he truly sees you, not just your face in a royal frame… then I will trust you to choose.”

A lump formed in her throat, and she only nodded. Her father gently took her hand and placed a small ring in her palm—her grandfather’s silver band. A symbol of strength passed silently between generations.

The night passed slowly, heavy with questions—but also, for the first time, hope.

Across the miles, both families lay in their respective homes—one nestled in the quiet hills of Dehradun, the other under the grandeur of Jaipur’s sandstone towers—tied now by a thread of fate neither fully understood.

And yet, something had begun—tentative as a whisper, but with the quiet strength of a seed rooted in trust.

A beginning.