The morning in Dehradun was dipped in soft silence, as though nature itself was holding its breath. Mist clung to the trees outside Eraya’s window, the faint chill creeping in through the old wooden frames of the house. She sat curled on the living room sofa, a warm shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a book resting on her lap. But the pages were still, untouched. Her eyes had hovered over the same paragraph a dozen times now, yet the words refused to sink in.

All she could think about was him.

Vidhart Singh Ranawat.

Royal. Reputed. Reserved. And now, unexpectedly, relevant to her life.

She wasn’t used to this sudden attention, this whirlwind of decisions and emotions crashing into her quiet, carefully constructed world. The thought of marriage, let alone to someone so far removed from her reality, felt like a wave—one she wasn’t sure she could stand against or surrender to.

Her father's voice echoed from the night before.

Calm.

Steady.

Measured.

"If you believe he truly sees you—not just your face framed in a palace portrait—then I will trust you to choose."

It wasn’t a blessing, but it wasn’t rejection either. And that nuance stirred something in her.

She rose from the couch and walked toward the mirror in her room. Her mother’s teal dupatta was draped over a chair nearby, and instinctively, she picked it up, wrapping it around her shoulders. The fabric was soft, comforting—like a whisper of old memories and new possibilities.

She looked at herself. Not as a girl who ran an NGO, not as a daughter, not even as a potential bride—but as a woman caught in the middle of something unexpectedly significant.

“I’ll meet him,” she finally whispered. “Just once.”

Later, when she repeated those words to her father, he didn’t smile. He simply placed a hand on her shoulder. “That’s all I ask.”

But Eraya saw it—the faint shimmer of relief in his eyes.

Vidhart’s – The Same Day in Jaipur

Dusk crept through the ornate windows of the Ranawat haveli, painting the marble walls in shades of gold and lavender. Vidhart stood by his study window, his posture as still as the antique grandfather clock that marked time with a solemn tick.

The call had come minutes ago. She had agreed to meet him.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the air escape his lungs in a long, silent exhale. It wasn’t victory he felt—but gratitude. And a tender kind of hope.

He didn’t want to overwhelm her with opulence or charm. This had to be different—genuine.

He sent word for the meeting to be arranged in a quiet café in Dehradun. No chandeliers, no royal entourage. Just two people, a pair of chai cups, and maybe a chance.

When he sat down that evening, fingers tracing the worn wood of the table, he realized something. This wasn’t just a step in some princely ritual. This was his moment. One he’d waited four years for.

And yet, she didn’t know.

Not yet.

The Meeting – Eraya’s POV

The café smelled of fresh cardamom and coffee beans. Its walls were lined with books and quiet conversations. A soft instrumental track played in the background, giving the air an intimate hum.

Eraya’s heart pounded as she stepped inside. She scanned the room—and saw him.

Seated by the window, in a crisp yet simple white shirt, sleeves rolled just below his elbows, Vidhart looked…ordinary. But it was the kind of ordinary that held an unexpected gravity. He wasn’t trying to impress. He was just there. Waiting. With a calmness that unsettled her more than she expected.

He stood when he saw her. “Thank you for coming.”

“I wasn’t sure I would,” she replied honestly, taking the seat opposite him.

“I wasn’t sure you would either,” he said, lips curved into a soft, self-aware smile.

The awkwardness faded faster than she thought it would. Their conversation wandered from the comfort of chai to their favorite books, and then—almost effortlessly—toward her work.

When she spoke about her NGO, about the underfunded health camp and the little girl who had drawn a sunflower on her cast, something flickered in his eyes. It wasn’t pity. It was…interest. Respect.

“You care deeply,” he said, voice quiet.

Eraya hesitated. “Does that surprise you?”

He shook his head. “No. It confirms what I sensed.”

She looked at him then, more closely. “What did you sense?”

He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he looked at the steam rising from his cup. “That you live your truth. And that’s rare.”

Something tightened in her chest.

She wasn’t used to being seen so plainly. And she certainly wasn’t used to liking the feeling.

Vidhart’s POV

He had to restrain himself—not from emotion, but from revelation. He wanted to tell her everything. About Dehradun. About the temple. About how she had lived rent-free in his memory for four long years. But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Because this wasn’t about him. This was about giving her space to see him, without the weight of what he already knew.

When she smiled—just slightly, just for a moment—something settled in him.

And when she first walked in, draped in a soft teal dupatta, eyes scanning the café with cautious grace—his breath had caught. There was no chandelier or grandeur here, but to him, she lit up the entire room.

She looked so different from the image he’d carried all these years—and yet, exactly the same. Her hair fell in gentle waves over her shoulders, her eyes alert but vulnerable. There was a nervous energy in the way she clutched her purse strap, and he had to stop himself from staring too long, from letting his admiration pour into every expression.

She’s here, he thought.

Finally.

After all these years.

There was beauty in her presence—not just physical, but in the quiet strength she carried, the awareness in her gaze, the way she moved with purpose even through hesitation.

You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this, he thought as he watched her settle across from him.

But he kept it to himself—for now.

.

.

.

.

Departure

After nearly an hour, she stood to leave. Her eyes searched his face, thoughtful.

“I’m not saying yes,” she said softly. “But I’ll meet you again.”

It was more than he had hoped for.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he replied.

As she turned to go, her fingers brushed the edge of the table briefly. “You’re not like I expected.”

“Neither are you,” he said with a quiet honesty.

And just like that, she was gone.

But something had shifted.

Not an agreement.

Not a decision.

But a door opened—not wide, but just enough.

Enough for light to pour in.

Enough to begin.