Hey everyone!
Just a quick update for all my lovely readers
I’ll be updating twice a week — one update is fixed on Sunday, and the other day will vary depending on my schedule.
For the starting chapters, I won’t be setting any vote targets.
But later on, updates will be based on vote goals —
once the target is reached, I’ll drop the next chapter!
Please don’t forget to vote and comment — your feedback helps me understand what you’re thinking and keeps me motivated to write more!
Thank you so much for your love and support. I hope you’ll continue to enjoy the story and stay with me on this journey.
Love you all! ❤️
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The heavy scent of dark chocolate and crushed walnuts hung in the air, richer than the black clouds gathering ominously outside.
The sky was thick with promise, but the rain hadn’t come yet.
Still, I found myself hoping it would.
Rain was my favorite — the soft sound of droplets, the fresh smell afterward — it used to mean so much when I was with Papa.
We’d bake our special monsoon cake together on rainy days like this, filling the house with warmth and laughter.
Now, standing here in the bakery, mixing the melted chocolate into the flour, I felt a pang of longing for those simpler times.
My hands moved almost on their own, folding the glossy batter gently, while my phone played a song that mirrored my ache.
“Phir le aaya dil, majboor kya keeje
Raas na aaya rehna door kya keeje…”
I stirred in the crushed walnuts with care.
Baking wasn’t just a task — it was an escape. A ritual.
A way to breathe Papa’s love back into the walls of this quiet kitchen.
Lost in the music and memory, I didn’t hear anyone approach — until a voice pierced the stillness.
“Boooh!”
I jumped, heart stumbling, as Riya grinned from behind me, all mischief and drama.
My hands clutched the bowl as I let out a breathless laugh.
“Riya! You scared me!”
She gave a mock bow. “Mission accomplished.”
Riya had been my best friend since second grade.
And Lakshay — her cousin — though older by two years, had always felt like an extension of that bond. Steady, kind, and effortlessly grounded despite the silver spoon life had handed him.
Lakshay had moved to Canada last year to study medicine.
We didn’t speak often, but whenever we did, it was easy. Like the silence in between had never stretched.
As I poured the batter into a tray and put in oven, Riya leaned back on the counter, eyeing me with faux suspicion.
“Aree yaar, tu phir se apna Monsoon Special Cake bana rahi hai?”
("Oh come on, you're making your Monsoon Special Cake again?")
I wiped my hands, walking over to the window.
The sky looked like it was holding back something sacred. “I just wish it would rain,” I whispered. “I don’t know why… but I’ve been missing Papa a lot lately.”
Riya didn’t tease. She simply climbed onto the counter and sat cross-legged, her silence holding me.
“Rain in Jaipur?” she scoffed gently. “Bhool jao, Iru beta.”
("Forget it, Iru dear.")
I smiled faintly, appreciating her attempt to lift my mood.
She changed the subject. “So… when are you finally taking admission into medicine?”
I hesitated, voice low. “Not this year. But I’ll take the entrance. I have to try.”
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
A soft ding came from the oven. I pulled out the cake — warm, fragrant, rich with memory. Chocolate and roasted walnuts — a hug from the past.
I set it on the rack and turned to her. “And what about you, madam? Any plans?”
She giggled dreamily. “Shaadi… aur phir bacche.”
("Get married… and then have babies.")
I laughed, shaking my head. “Classic Riya.”
She swooped in, stealing a bite of the cake before I could stop her. I smacked her hand playfully.
“Not yet! Let me finish the icing first.”
She stepped back with an exaggerated pout. I focused on the glaze, smoothing it like I was frosting a piece of my soul.
Then my phone buzzed.
Mom.
I answered.
Her voice was sharp, clipped.
“Close the bakery and come home… fast.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the screen for a moment.
No hello. No explanation. Just urgency wrapped in frost.
Riya looked up. “Everything okay?”
“I have to close early. Something’s come up at home.”
She moved to help instantly. “I’ll drop you.”
I shook my head. “I’ll manage. Just help me shut everything. From tomorrow, Kesar bhaiya will be back. It’s just today.”
We cleaned in silence. At the door, she hugged me tightly.
“Call me if anything feels off.”
“I will.”
I watched her car disappear down the lane.
The evening was cooling, Jaipur’s dusty breeze brushing against my skin as I locked the bakery behind me.
I walked quickly, clutching my bag. The streets felt different — as if the sky itself knew something I didn’t.
When I reached home, I paused.
A sleek car was parked outside.
Its trunk open. A porter loading bags.
My pace quickened.
Inside — chaos. My mother was folding clothes, drawers thrown open, bags half-zipped.
She didn’t look up.
“I’ve packed your things. If you need anything else, grab it now. We’re moving to the palace.”
I froze. “What? What are you talking about?”
She kept folding.
“We haven’t paid rent in four months. The landlord’s evicting us. The Maharaj offered us a quarter in the palace — out of gratitude for your father’s service.”
My mouth opened, but the words wouldn’t come.
So that was it? No warning. No goodbye to the life I was clinging to by my fingertips?
“I’ll handle it,” I blurted. “I can manage the rent—”
She laughed. Not cruelly. Just tiredly.
“With what, Iraaya? From that bakery?”
I had nothing to say.
She zipped the last suitcase. “We leave in ten minutes.”
I turned, walking to my room in a haze.
The walls already felt like they’d let go of me.
I reached under my bed and Inside, nestled in a scrap of velvet, lay Papa’s old silver locket — oval, delicate, worn smooth with time.
I picked it up with trembling fingers, running my thumb over the tiny clasp like I’d done a hundred times before. “Keep it close, and I’m never far,” he used to say, whispering it against my hair during stormy nights. I held it tightly for a moment, as if I could still catch the echo of his voice.
I pressed it to my heart.
“I miss you, Papa… so much,” I whispered, swallowing the lump in my throat.
But I didn’t cry anymore.
I packed only what mattered — books, a change of clothes, a tiny photo album.
As we stepped outside, I looked back one last time.
At the only place that had ever felt like mine.
The door clicked shut.
And something inside me did too.
In the car, the night wind brushed past me. Lights blurred as the city began to fall behind.
How strange it is… to lose something without even realizing you were holding on so tightly.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
As the car passed through towering iron gates, Iraaya felt the air shift — heavier, older, soaked in stories.
The Rathores.
Royals whose names people whispered with awe.
Their lineage was older than the city itself.
She gripped her bag a little tighter.
The palace rose like something carved from Jaipur’s soul — sandstone walls glowing in the dusk, carved jaalis casting shadows like lace.
Domes curved like the sky had kissed them.
Fountains whispered in hidden courtyards, and the scent of mogra drifted on the breeze.
Traditional opulence stood shoulder to shoulder with modern ease — sensor-lit corridors, elevators tucked behind ancestral stone.
It was timeless. And overwhelming.
Iraaya walked silently behind her mother, her dupatta catching in the breeze.
And then… they saw them.
Rajmata Padmawati Singh Rathore — upright, graceful, in an ivory saree edged with gold. Her eyes were sharp, timeless.
Yashraj Singh Rathore — regal in a charcoal achkan, a silver cane resting lightly in his hand. His presence was calm, but commanding.
They looked like they belonged to a different world.
And maybe they did.
Rajmata’s gaze settled on Iraaya. “You are Ravi Kishan’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Iraaya’s breath caught. But she stepped forward, bowing, touching their feet.
“Jee,” she said softly. “I am.”
(“yes”,)
They blessed her, hands resting briefly on her head.
A strange calm followed, like a hush before a monsoon.
Her mother added quickly, “Aapka shukriya, humari madad karne ke liye—”
("Thank you for helping us—")
Yashraj lifted his hand, gently interrupting. “Iski zarurat nahi. Ravi toh hamare liye saalon tak kaam karta raha. Uske haathon ki banayi mithai sabko pasand thi… khaaskar Veer ko.”
("There's no need for that. Ravi worked for us for many years. Everyone loved the sweets he made… especially Veer.")
He paused — the name lingering in the air.
Veer.
Iraaya didn’t know who he was.
But something in that name stirred something in her. A flicker.
She lowered her eyes, brushing the moment away. But the name echoed.
Yashraj spoke again, guiding them toward the east wing. “Tumhara quarter saamne wale courtyard ke opposite hai. Agar kuch bhi chahiye ho, kehna.”
("Your quarters are opposite the courtyard ahead. If you need anything, just ask.")
Her mother responded with quiet gratitude. “Dhanyawaad, Maharaj.”
(“Thank you, Your Highness.”)
“And if you ever need something made,” she added, “Iraaya is a very good cook. She—”
Rajmata raised her hand gracefully. “We’ll let you know, beta.”
The meeting ended.
But inside Iraaya, the storm had only begun to gather.
As they turned to their new quarters, she glanced back at the palace glowing behind them.
Veer.
She didn’t know him.
But something told her… she hadn’t heard that name for the last time.
∘◦ ❈ ◦∘
Hey everyone! ✨
I know this chapter was a bit short and only gave you a small glimpse into Iraaya's world, but trust me — there's so much more to come!
The real adventure is just beginning, and I can't wait to take you along for the ride.
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Thank you for reading!
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