Hey guys! I’m back with a new chapter 😄
I know I’m a little late… but what can I do now, right? 🙈
Hope you enjoy this one! If you do, please don’t forget to vote and comment — your support means everything to me 💕
Can’t wait to hear what you think!
Now without wasting any more time… let’s dive straight into the chapter!
The rich, curling aroma of coffee filled the kitchen like a cloak of warmth, wrapping around my senses.
But even that comfort that familiarity couldn’t drown out the storm brewing inside me.
She’s still here.
Under my roof.
That same girl.
The one who spilled fire instead of fear.
The one who threw my silence back at me like it was an insult.
And now, she was here. Living within these palace walls the very walls I ruled.
I didn’t know what it was exactly— irritation, curiosity… or something far darker. But whatever it was, it simmered just beneath the surface, coiling like smoke inside my chest.
Her face refused to leave my mind.
Fierce. Flushed. Wild with rage. That same spark in her eyes I’d never seen before— not from anyone but certainly from someone like her.
She looked at me as if she didn’t care who I was.
Like my power, my name, my presence meant nothing.
Her jhumkas had danced violently with every movement, every word that fell from her trembling lips. And yet, her voice never cracked with fear. Only defiance.
Her face the sharp arch of her brows, the slight quiver of her mouth, the way her breath hitched as she fought to hold her ground— it all replayed again and again like a scene etched into the back of my eyelids.
She had guts. Too much of it.
A smirk ghosted across my lips, slow and deliberate.
She really didn’t know what kind of storm she had walked into.
Not yet.
The coffee machine clicked, pulling me back.
The mug was full.
I wrapped my fingers around the warm ceramic and began walking toward my wing, still half-consumed by the thought of her. But as I neared my corridor, my steps slowed.
Someone was standing outside my room.
Dadu.
Leaning against the pillar, one hand braced on the cold marble, the other gently pressing against his temple. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and the sight of him like that quiet, unsteady— brought a bitter sting to the back of my throat.
The tumor.
The word thundered through me like a drumbeat.
The thing he had told no one else about.
Only me.
The smile slipped from my face instantly.
And everything else the girl, the smirk faded into smoke.
“Dadu?” I crossed the space quickly, voice low but sharp with concern. “What’s wrong? Why are you out here?”.
He turned at the sound of my voice, offering a soft, tired smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Just a little headache,” he replied, as if it were nothing. As if his world wasn’t silently being chipped away from the inside.
I didn’t respond. Just stood beside him, letting the silence stretch for a moment— heavy and unsaid.
Then, he spoke again, quieter this time.
“If you’re not sleepy either, will you sit with me in the garden for a while?”
I glanced at him, his posture faintly hunched in a way that unsettled me,
I nodded. “Hmm. Sure.”
We walked together, side by side, down the moonlit corridor. And with each step, my heart ached a little more.
This was the man who used to lift me on his shoulders and call me tiger when I’d win a race at school. The one who’d chase me around the courtyard, laugh the loudest during family dinners, scold me with love when I’d break a rule.
He had been unbreakable to me.
He still was and yet tonight he looked tired.Older.Too human.
I stole a glance at him as we stepped into the garden— the open sky above us scattered with stars. I helped him lower himself carefully onto the cushioned bench beneath the pergola. My hands automatically reached for the cushions behind his back, adjusting them until I was sure he was comfortable.
He sat with a quiet sigh. I sat beside him, keeping close.
But my mind was already racing.Specialists. Top neurologists. International options. Anything.Everything. I would fight this. I would not let this disease take him from me.
He had protected me all my life. Now it was my turn.
Then — his voice, came.
“You didn’t ask about your father.”
I lowered my gaze, my fingers tightening around the mug in my hands, i didn’t say a word.
“He’s out of country,” Dadu continued after a pause, his voice laced with quiet resignation. “Business trip. He took your mother with him.”
And just like that a blade slid silently through my chest.
My mother.
Her name.
That single word so small, so ordinary to anyone else carved something raw inside me.
Even after all these years, it still had that effect.
Just hearing about her stirred something I kept buried too deep, too tightly. A mixture of ache and anger, longing and restraint. A storm wrapped in silence.
I hadn’t seen her in so long. Not really. Not face to face. Not in a way that mattered.
There was so much left unsaid between us.
So many cracks no one tried to fill.
So many silences we just… accepted.
And tonight, I didn’t have the strength to unpack it.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment, swallowing everything like I always did,
Burying it before it could rise too far,this wasn’t the time.
“Where’s Bua?” I asked, forcing my voice steady, pushing the conversation somewhere anywhere else.
“She went to her friend’s daughter’s wedding,” Dadu replied, tone softer now. “She’ll be back in some days but the kids will reach early in the morning”
I nodded slightly, a hum escaping me — barely a sound, but enough to say I was listening.
A small smile tugged at his lips. “Kritika will be so happy to see you.”
That name,it cut through the weight, Kritika, my little sister.
I couldn’t help the faint smile that curved across my lips. “Me too,” I said quietly, the warmth in my chest a rare thing.
“She was upset when you didn’t come for her engagement.”
I sighed.
Regret washed through me slowly, dull but heavy. “I know,” I said after a beat. “But you also know why I didn’t.”
He nodded, he didn’t need an explanation.
He knew how this family worked. How I did.
The silence returned, comfortable for a moment— until it wasn’t.
Then came the question I’d been expecting for.
“What about you, Vir?”
I looked away. My fingers tightened slightly around the coffee mug in my hands.
“What about me, Dadu?” I asked, though I already knew.
“You’re a settled man now,” he said gently. “You’ll turn twenty-seven soon. Why not think about settling down?”
I swallowed hard.
There it was the age-old conversation.
The expectation. The quiet hope behind his voice.
I inhaled slowly, pressing the frustration back down where it wouldn’t show.
“You know I don’t believe in all that,” I said, my voice colder than I intended— flat, firm, final. “Not in love. Not in marriage.”
It was a wall I had built long ago, and I wasn’t ready to tear it down.
I saw the disappointment flicker in his eyes quiet, unspoken, but there, he didn’t argue didn’t try to fight my words he just looked away, his lips folding into a thin line as he stared ahead.
I didn’t say anything either. Let the silence settle.
But guilt began to creep in — slow and sharp.
That’s always been my flaw.
My temper. My defensiveness. The way I pushed people away before they could ask too much.
I reached for his hand, placing mine over his gently.
“Sorry, Dadu,” I said softly. “I shouldn’t have said like that. I’ll think about it. But not now.”
His expression shifted instantly softer, lighter. Hope glimmered just enough to make him pat my shoulder.
That was enough for him.
He didn’t need promises. Just a crack in the wall.
I leaned back into the couch, letting the cushion catch the weight of my thoughts. My head tilted upward, eyes drawn to the night sky stretching endlessly above the garden.
The stars blinked back at me sharp and distant, cold in their beauty.
So unreachable.
So untouched.
A part of me longed for that stillness.
That distance.
But even in that silence, peace didn’t come because the moment I let my eyes fall shut.
She was there again.
Her face rising like smoke through the dark.
The girl from the tea stall.
The girl from the kitchen.
The girl with the fire I couldn’t put out.
Uninvited.
Unshaken.
Unforgettable.
She crept into my thoughts like she belonged there, as if some part of her had claimed space inside me without asking, and it infuriated me.
Her voice echoed in my memory sharp, unapologetic.
The way she stood her ground.
The way her anger didn’t crumble when it met mine.
The fire in her eyes.
The wild tilt of her head.
The storm in her every word.
I opened my eyes again slowly, my breath leaving me in a low, tense exhale, she was getting under my skin, deeper than she should, faster than I liked, and I didn’t like it.
I didn’t like it at all.
My voice cut softly through the stillness low, measured, casual enough to hide the edge beneath it.
“Is someone staying in the guest wing? I noticed the lights were on.”
Dadu turned toward me, a familiar warmth in his smile. “Yes. Ravi’s family is living there.”
I frowned. The name pulled at something distant.“Ravi? Who?”
He let out a light chuckle, the kind that carried nostalgia. “The same Ravi who used to make those chocolate waffles for you. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your childhood favorite.”
And just like that the memory clicked into place.
The warmth of the old kitchen.
The smell of waffles, crisp and sweet.
Ravi uncle, grinning behind the counter, always slipping me an extra piece when he thought no one was looking.
He used to call me Vir baba. He was kind. Humble. Loyal.
“Yeah…” I said slowly, surprised the image had been buried for so long. “I remember.”
But then something else clicked, ravi’s family is living here, that girl, the one from the tea stall.
The one who stood in my kitchen like she belonged.
Could it be?
No. I’d never seen her before. Not once. Ravi uncle had been around the palace for years but not once had he ever mentioned a daughter. Not in passing, not in conversation, not in the brief visits when I was still home.
“Why are they staying here?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
Dadu’s smile faltered — just slightly. It was the kind of shift most people would miss.“They’ve had some trouble,” he said after a brief pause. “I offered them a place to stay. They’re good people, Vir.”
Some trouble.
The phrase settled in my mind like smoke vague, deliberately soft.
I gave a slight nod but didn’t respond. Not yet.
Instead, the next question rose, unfiltered.
“Where is Ravi uncle?”
The moment the words left my mouth, something changed.
It was subtle. But I noticed it.
The way Dadu’s body tensed.
The way the quiet in his eyes turned into something else.
The way his smile gentle and easy seconds ago vanished completely.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t even try.
His hand lifted instead, pressing against his temple. “My headache, it’s getting worse,” he murmured, voice strained.
That was it.
No explanation. No story. Just that.
I rose to my feet instantly, not pushing further though every part of me wanted to.
“Let’s go,” I said firmly. “You need to rest, Dadu.”
He didn’t protest. Didn’t argue.
I reached out, steadying him as we stood. His shoulder felt smaller beneath my hand. Not weak justp fragile in a way that made something twist in my chest.
We walked in silence back toward his room. I stayed with him until he disappeared behind the door.
I watched the hallway for a moment, as if the walls themselves might offer an answer.
But they didn’t.
And that unease the one that sparked the moment I asked about Ravi still lingered.
The silence.
The dodge.
The shift in his eyes.
Was it really just the headache?
Or was it something he didn’t want to say?
Something he couldn’t?
I turned back, coffee still in hand, now lukewarm and bitter. The hallway stretched out before me — silent, shadowed, empty. But my mind wasn’t still.
It was racing.
Turning.
Ravi.
His family.
Dadu’s silence.
There were too many pieces that didn’t fit together.
But I would find out.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The dull thud of weights I was lifting in my private gym, steady and sharp like a heartbeat I could control.
Sweat clung to my skin, every muscle taut with effort, every breath calculated. I always started my mornings here two hours, no distractions. The gym wasn’t just for fitness.
It was escape.
Discipline.
Control.
And maybe punishment.
I had learned long ago that pain in the muscles was easier than pain in the mind. Here, there were no questions. No past. Just iron, breath, and silence.
Because that silence didn’t last.
Footsteps. Light, quick, echoing in the hallway. Not one pair two. And fast.
I frowned, pausing mid-rep. I didn’t expect anyone here this early.
And then—
The door flew open.
Before I could turn, I felt it.
Warmth.
Arms. Soft, familiar, full of childhood.
A tight hug from behind, bangles clinking as they pressed against my skin. Pink bangles.
“Vir bhai!” came the breathless, joy-soaked whisper from behind me. “You’re back!”
My heart stuttered.
Kritika.
That voice so familiar, yet grown. That energy— still exactly the same.
I dropped the dumbbells gently to the mat and turned, slowly.
There she was.
Eyes shimmering. Face glowing with emotion. And suddenly she wasn’t grown at all. She was the same little girl who used to cry if I left without telling her, who called me her hero every time I fixed her broken toys or tied her hair into clumsy braids.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she scolded with a teary smile, still holding me tight. “I’ve been waiting for days, bhai. You didn’t even come for my engagement! I was so mad!”
“I know,” I murmured, running a hand gently over her hair. “I deserved that. But I’m here now.”
She stepped back, just enough to look at me, eyes taking in every detail like she didn’t want to miss a thing.
And then, with a dramatic sniff, she said, “You look so… real. Like even better than on video calls. I will cry. Damn it, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry!”
I chuckled, brushing her cheek. “Too late for that, chhoti.”
“Don’t hog him all to yourself, drama queen,” came a teasing voice from behind her.
I looked up.
Samar.
Taller. Leaner. Hair messy like always, but he wasn’t the little boy who used to beg me to sneak him sweets anymore.
Still i saw the softness in his eyes. The silent, aching kind of love that only younger brothers carry.
“I see you’re trying to outgrow me,” I said, smirking.
“You wish,” he said, walking in and wrapping me in a quick, strong hug. “I missed you, Vir bhai. It’s weird without you. Feels empty.”
I hugged him back, my hand patting his back the same way I used to when he fell asleep on my chest after long summer play fights. “I missed you too, lion.”
There was a silence, the kind that came only when too much was left unsaid and too much was already understood.
And then —
“Okay, what is this?”
A fourth voice. Laced with mischief.
We all turned.
Kritika gasped. “Shahveer bhai?!”
Samar’s eye's went wide. “You also came?”
Shahveer stood in the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like a fox. “Of course I did. You think I’d miss the drama?”
He ruffled her hair and tugged Samar into a half-hug, laughing.
“I leave the palace for one week,” Samar declared with exaggerated disbelief, arms wide, “and Vir bhai returns like some dramatic prince straight out of a royal film—glowing, mysterious, and ripped like he’s been training for a war!”
He smirked and gave a mock bow. “Welcome back, Your Highness.”
“Feels good,” I said dryly. “that was dramatic.”
That made them all laugh— that deep, gut-punch kind of laughter that shakes the air and lifts everything with it. It had been so long since I heard that sound.
Felt it.
“Alright now,” I muttered, pulling slightly away from the hug pile. “All of you, stop clinging to me. I’ve been working out for two hours. I’m drenched in sweat. You’ll get dirty.”
Kritika stepped back finally, her eyes trailing down my chest, then my arms. Her nose wrinkled— but her eyes sparkled.
"Wow, bhai!" she stepped back, eyes wide with dramatic flair. "By the way, how insanely handsome are you? Like, look at this body—those arms, that face—" she waved her hand up and down like presenting a prize. "You're not just a walking fitness model, you're the whole damn magazine cover!"
She placed a hand on her chest with a playful gasp. "Girls are seriously going to lose their minds!"
Before I could even react, Samar let out a sharp whistle.
“Kritika,” I said, my tone sharp with disbelief as I narrowed my eyes at her.
“Seriously?” Then I turned to Samar, who was trying and failing to hide his grin. “And you don’t encourage her.”
He zipped his lips instantly. Shahveer he was already doubled over, laughing.
“You guys are unbelievable,” I muttered, shaking my head but there was a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth I couldn’t stop. Not this time.
“Breakfast?” Kritika asked hopefully. “Everyone’s waiting.”
I wiped my face with a towel and nodded. “You all go ahead. I’ll take a shower and come.”
“Don’t take forever!” she called out, already dragging Samar and Shahveer toward the exit.
But right as she reached the door, she paused.
Turned. Eyes soft again.“Bhai?”
I looked up, still catching my breath.
“You’re not going back again, right?"
her question hit deeper than I expected.
The room fell quiet.
I looked at her. At Samar.
And I saw it— the unspoken fear. The kind of wound that gets left behind when someone you love keeps disappearing.
I took a breath, the weight of everything pressing softly into my chest.
And then— I nodded.
“No,” I said. “I’m not going.”
Her face lit up with the brightest smile I’d seen in years.
And just like that.
Everything felt lighter.
Everything felt right.
.
.
.
It was 11:30 a.m. when Iraaya’s mother appeared at the bakery counter, her expression unreadable but her voice sharp enough to slice through the calm.
“Raajmata has asked for you.”
The words felt like a slap.
Iraaya froze mid-pour, the hot milk sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the coffee cup she was preparing for a customer.
Kesar bhaiya called her name from the back kitchen, asking for help with a sponge batch— but the sound barely registered.
Raajmata.
Had asked.
For her.
The panic hit instantly.
Her heartbeat stuttered, then sped up so quickly she felt a wave of dizziness roll through her.
She knew.
She had to know.
Iraaya’s mind spiraled, flashing back to last night— the dim palace corridors, the chilled marble beneath her bare feet, the weight of silence as she’d wandered through corridors in a T-shirt and loose trousers, searching for water.
She had crept into the palace kitchen like a thief.
But what if someone had seen her?
What if a guard had recognized her silhouette and told Raajmata that some unknown girl had dared to break the palace code of discipline?
She could already imagine it— being summoned not as a guest, but as an intruder.
Her breath came out in a slow, shaky exhale.
“What did she say?” Iraaya asked, her voice dry.
Her mother didn’t look up from adjusting the folds of her dupatta. “Just that she wants to see you. That’s all. She didn’t sound upset.”
But Iraaya knew better than to find comfort in that. Royal calm always came with a blade hidden beneath it.
“Finish up. You should go before lunch,” her mother added before walking out.
Iraaya stood still for another second as if movement might change fate.
But no miracle came.
With trembling hands, she untied her apron, smoothed her kurta, and stepped out of the bakery— her feet somehow heavier than her body.
By the time she reached the palace gates, her nerves had tangled themselves into knots. Her palms were clammy, her steps hesitant. She wasn’t ready to face Raajmata, not with her heart clattering inside her chest.
Crossing the large archway that led into the inner gardens, she kept her eyes low, her thoughts clouded with anxious scenarios.
But then.
A sudden voice pierced the quiet.
“And now for the real drama,” someone was saying— excited, expressive, and far too cheerful for palace etiquette. “The princess of procrastination returns to her natural habitat— the sunlit garden she rarely uses unless it’s for vlogging or stalking her brothers.”
Iraaya’s gaze snapped up instinctively.
Standing in the middle of the palace garden, surrounded by sunlight, was a girl she had never seen before. She looked maybe two or three years older then her, with long hair braided loosely and stylishly tossed over one shoulder.
She wore a soft peach short kurta with baggy jeans, paired with chunky silver earrings that caught the light whenever she moved. Her feet were bare on the grass, and in her hands was a tripod-mounted phone that recorded her like she was born for the spotlight.
Iraaya paused, transfixed.
There was a kind of wild confidence to the girl not loud, but electric. The way she smiled at the camera, tilted her head, laughed at her own joke— it was like watching someone in their element, utterly fearless.
“and the palace birds usually hang out behind those hedges,” the girl said, waving her hand in that direction. “They’re not big fans of my singing— but honestly, what do they know about making good content?”
Iraaya blinked, barely aware she’d been staring.
But the girl noticed.
She tilted her head curiously, squinting at her screen. Then, a wide grin broke out across her face.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, a wide grin tugging at her lips. “You’re in my frame!”
Iraaya blinked, startled, caught like a deer in headlights.
“Wait — don’t move,” the girl added with a laugh, holding up a finger. “The light is hitting your cheekbone perfectly. Are you a model or something?”
“What? No,” Iraaya replied quickly, her voice a little flustered, her fingers instinctively tugging at the edge of her dupatta.
But the girl was already striding over, lowering her selfie stick. “Oh my god,” she said, eyes widening with unfiltered appreciation. “You’re seriously so pretty. The lighting caught you like a goddess descending for a guest appearance.”
Iraaya stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or hide.
“Uh… thanks?” she offered, almost shyly.
“I’m Kritika,” the girl declared with flair, like she was announcing the beginning of a reality show. “Official drama queen of this palace. Full-time troublemaker. Part-time vlogger— when the Wi-Fi doesn’t betray me.”
Her energy was like a cyclone wrapped in a smile. Effortlessly charming. Loud, but not obnoxious. Bright, but not blinding.
“And you are…?” Kritika added, eyes narrowing with playful expectation.
“Iraaya,” she replied, her lips twitching into a smile despite herself. “I… I live in the guest wing. Just moved in a day before.”
Kritika’s mouth fell open in exaggerated delight. “No way. No way! Are you serious?!”
Iraaya tilted her head, half amused.“Yeah… why?”
Kritika threw her hands up. “Because I’ve been manifesting this moment for months! Do you know how soul-crushing it is being the only person who knows how to enjoy life in a palace full of antique furniture, ancient royals who still use landlines, and uncles who think Wi-Fi is black magic?”
Iraaya laughed— a real one, soft and bright. The kind that sneaks out before you’ve decided to trust someone.
“You’re amazing,” she said honestly.
“Bless your soul for saying that,” Kritika grinned. “And you— that kurta? Giving classic elegance with subtle heartbreak. Like you belong on the cover of a minimalist fashion magazine that smells like cardamom and chocolates.”
Iraaya burst into a giggle, her nerves now forgotten. The tension that had followed her from the moment her mother told her Raajmata wanted to see her it loosened a little, like a tight string gently unraveling.
Kritika had that effect the kind of warmth that made you forget anything.
“We’re going to get along so well,” Kritika added confidently. “I can already tell. You’ve got the face, the vibe, and the mysterious energy of someone who secretly journals about books and poetry.”
“I don’t,” Iraaya said, trying to sound stern — but her grin betrayed her.
“Liar,” Kritika whispered with a wink.
They both laughed the garden filling with the kind of sound that hadn’t been heard there in years young, wild, unfiltered joy.
Then Iraaya remembered why she had come.
“Raajmata called me,” she said, her smile dimming slightly. “I think… I think it’s because I was in the palace kitchen the other night.”
“I was just thirsty,” Iraaya defended, cheeks flushing.
Kritika held up both hands in surrender. “I’m not judging! If anything, I’m impressed. nani is in the kitchen now, by the way. Want me to walk you there?”
“No, it’s okay,” Iraaya said gently. “I know the way. You finish your vlog. You’re really good at it.”
Kritika beamed, practically glowing. “Thanks. Most people think I’m just wasting time talking to my phone.”
“Well,” Iraaya said with a small smile, “your phone seems to like you.”
They shared a look— the kind that turns strangers into something more.
“Good luck in there,” Kritika said, stepping back toward her camera. “If nani throws a spoon at you, just dodge left. She has a weak right arm now.”
Iraaya laughed, her shoulders finally light. She turned toward the main hall, crossing the threshold with careful steps, heart racing again but this time, not just with fear.
And behind her, the vlog resumed Kritika’s voice floating playfully across the garden.
“Okay guys, unexpected content drop — I may have just met my palace bestie. She’s got tragic eyes and killer cheekbones. Stay tuned for chaos.”
The palace was quieter than Iraaya expected.
Her juttis made soft taps against the marble as she stepped through the towering archway and into the main hall a place she had only seen in glimpses, and never this still. Morning light filtered in through the tall arched windows, scattering golden patterns across the floor.
The grandeur around her felt surreal centuries-old portraits, glinting chandeliers, the quiet authority of legacy in every inch of the stone.
And yet, Iraaya couldn’t absorb any of it.
Her mind was spiraling again back to the last night she slipped through the corridors like a ghost, back to the thoughts that refused to leave her alone.
What if someone saw me? What if Raajmata found out? What if today’s ‘invitation’ was just a warning in disguise?
A slow breath left her lungs.
No matter what it is… you’ll face it.
She repeated it silently with every step she took down the hallway that led toward the palace kitchen.
But as she neared the entrance, her heart gave a traitorous thud.
Because Raajmata was already there.
She stood in the middle of the kitchen, draped in a soft ivory saree, her silver hair pinned neatly, her posture regal even while measuring rice into a brass bowl.
The scene should’ve felt ordinary— an elderly woman cooking in her own home.
But this woman wasn’t just anyone.
She was Raajmata Padmavati singh Rathore— the matriarch of this palace, revered by all.
And Iraaya? She was just a girl from the guest wing who had no business sneaking through royal kitchens at midnight.
The fear she’d tried to push down came crashing back like a wave.
Still, she steadied her voice and forced a small smile as she stepped inside.
“Raajmata…” she greeted softly, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
padmavati looked at her.
And to Iraaya’s surprise she smiled.
Her eyes, sharp with age and wisdom, softened with unmistakable warmth. “Come here, beta.”
Iraaya paused, confusion flashing through her chest. Beta?
She hesitated for a heartbeat before walking slowly toward her, each step filled with caution. “You… called for me?”
“Yes,” padmavati nodded, setting the bowl down gently. “Your mother told me you know how to cook— very well, in fact. And today, I could use an extra pair of hands in the kitchen.”
Iraaya blinked, stunned. “Help… with cooking?”
padmavati smiled again, this time with a fond glint in her eyes. “Yes. Today, I’m making lunch for my Vir.”
The name hit Iraaya like an unexpected gust of wind.
Vir.
Her breath caught slightly as she echoed the name, unsure if she’d heard it correctly. “Vir?”
padmavati turned toward her with pride in her voice and nostalgia in her gaze. “Yes. My grandson. He returned from America last night.”
Iraaya nodded quietly, her throat suddenly dry. “Oh”
Before she could say anything more, padmavati reached to adjust the boiling kettle behind her— her hand moving dangerously close to the steaming edge.
Without thinking, Iraaya stepped forward.
“Dadi, careful, your hand will burn.”
The words burst out before she could stop them.
padmavati froze.
The air stood still for a second.
And then Iraaya realized what she’d just said.
Her eyes widened. “I-I mean—Raajmata—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
But Padmavati simply stared at her for a moment surprised, yes, but not offended.
Then, slowly, she let out a soft chuckle and placed a gentle hand on Iraaya’s head.
“You’re very sweet, beta,” she said, her voice rich with kindness. “And if you feel it in your heart, you may call me Dadi.”
Iraaya’s heart swelled with relief, with warmth, with something far more tender than she was ready for.
She smiled a soft, shy curve of her lips and nodded.“Thank you… Dadi.”
The moment settled between them something simple, yet deeply human.
And then—
“Okay hold up, this lighting is criminally good!”
A loud, cheerful voice rang out from behind, breaking the quiet.
Both women turned as Kritika burst into the kitchen, holding her camera above her head like a crown.
“Nani, I swear this kitchen has vintage Netflix-series vibes today,” she said, stopping mid-sentence when she saw Iraaya beside her grandmother. “Oh hey! You made it.”
Iraaya let out a soft laugh. “yes.”
Padmavati raised a curious brow. “You two know each other?”
Kritika beamed. “We’re basically besties now. I caught her on camera this morning looking like a Vogue cover girl in the garden. I was going to bribe her to be in my next reel.”
padmavati sighed in amused defeat. “You and your reels.”
“Nani, don’t underestimate the power of content,” Kritika said, dramatically placing a hand on her heart. “Anyway, I’m off to edit. But I’ll come steal Iraaya after sometime if you allow me?”
padmavati smiled. “Only if she finishes helping me.”
“Deal.” Kritika winked at Iraaya and exited just as she entered a flash of sunlight and chaos.
Iraaya shook her head with a smile as she turned back to the counter, finally beginning to chop vegetables alongside padmavati, the fear now tucked somewhere far in the background.
Maybe this kitchen wasn’t as intimidating as she’d feared.
Maybe something new was beginning here.
And Iraaya wasn’t ready to admit it yet but she didn’t mind the thought of belonging.
Not completely.
The scent of roasted spices and caramelized ghee still lingered in the kitchen when Padmavati Singh Rathore— lovingly called Raajmata by all— stepped back, smiling softly as she surveyed the dishes arranged with care on the marble counter.
Different gravies shimmered under golden oil, fresh rotis sat beneath a linen cloth, and the aroma of cardamom and saffron drifted from the gajar ka halwa, now waiting to be garnished.
Padmavati turned to Iraaya, who was adjusting the flame beneath the container. “Iraaya beta,” she said warmly, patting her shoulder, “thank you so much for helping today. You really do know your way around a kitchen.”
Iraaya flushed slightly and smiled, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “Thank you, Dadi,” she said, the word slipping out now with ease and fondness. “It was a pleasure helping.”
Padmavati’s eyes softened at that something maternal blooming quietly in her gaze. “I’m just stepping out for a few minutes. Will you finish putting the dry fruits in the halwa? Don’t let it stick.”
Iraaya nodded. “Of course.”
The soft click of padmavati’s steps faded into the corridor, and for a while, it was just Iraaya alone in that vast royal kitchen, humming softly to herself as she stirred the halwa with careful hands.
Without realizing it, a melody escaped her lips a sweet, nostalgic tune her father used to hum while baking.
Her voice wasn’t trained, but it carried warmth soft, clear, and unfiltered.
Just beyond the kitchen, Viransh was pacing the length of the corridor, phone pressed tightly to his ear, his other hand tucked into the pocket of his pants.
His voice was low, crisp, and businesslike the kind of tone that didn’t tolerate excuses.
“No, Ryan, I don’t care if the New York team wants to delay the pitch. We agreed on the 10th— that means the decks, figures, everything, must be ready by the 8th at the latest.”
His tone didn’t rise— it didn’t need to.
The weight of his words alone was enough to silence the boardrooms halfway across the world.
“We’re not giving them another extension. If they can’t meet deadlines, we’ll go to Helsinki.”
Another pause.
“Good. I’ll review the final numbers myself tonight. And Ryan? No errors this time.” but just as he finished his sentence, something made him stop mid-step.
A sound.
No — a voice.
Soft. Clear. Untrained, but achingly sweet weaving through the corridor like warm light through cold marble.
A song.
He stopped walking, blinking as if his mind had short-circuited.
The call still ran the other side speaking but he no longer heard them, his fingers lowered the phone from his ear instinctively, thumb brushing the screen to end the call without a word.
For a second, everything else, the deadlines, the pressure, the ruthlessness faded.
All that remained was the voice.
Turning his head, he followed the sound, moving slowly toward the half-open kitchen door.
There she was.
Back to him, swaying gently as she stirred the halwa. Her dupatta lay abandoned on the counter, and her long, dark hair flowed down her back, catching the golden light streaming in through the high kitchen windows.
She wore a simple kurti-palazzo set, nothing extravagant but something about her looked ethereal in that moment.
Calm. Unaware. Completely herself.
The same girl.
Viransh stood frozen at the edge of the corridor, just outside the kitchen entrance, his breath halting in his chest.
That voice, that song it had poured out of the room like sunlight sneaking through a crack in the wall, warm and golden and entirely out of place in his otherwise cold, calculated world.
His gaze shifted, slowly and then locked.
The same one who had stood in this very kitchen last night, defiant and unbothered in her T-shirt and trousers.
But this morning she looked different.
Her back was to him, but even from here, he could see her long, silken hair tumbling freely down her back, brushing past her waist.
No dupatta, it lay folded casually on the counter beside her, forgotten.
Her kurti clung softly to her frame, and the light filtering in through the kitchen skylight framed her in a warm, glowing outline— like some painting he hadn’t meant to walk in on.
She stood there one hand stirring a deep steel vessel with slow, practiced circles, the other swaying slightly with the rhythm of her song.
Her voice was soft, untrained, but sincere the kind that didn’t perform for others, just existed in its own world.
Effortless.
Unaffected.
Unaware that someone was watching.
She gathered her hair and shifted it to one shoulder, the strands cascading down like honey over porcelain, effortless and unaware of the gaze she caught.
His eyes moved of their own accord from the slope of her bare neck down to Sliding down to where the cloth clung to the quiet elegance of her posture, to the faint outline of her wrist moving with every gentle swirl.
There was nothing deliberate in it. And yet— something about her made the air around him feel heavier.
His mind should’ve known better.
But his body betrayed him— still, unmoving, caught in a moment that felt like it didn’t belong to reality.
His breath tightened.
For a second, just one he let it consume him. The voice. The sight. The soft clink of the ladle against the vessel. The faint hum of something sweet being cooked.
But then —
logic returned.
Sharp and unforgiving.
As if doused in cold water, he blinked. Hard.
What the hell was he doing?
Watching a girl. In his palace kitchen. Lost in the way she stirred halwa and sang under her breath like she owned the air around her.
He clenched his jaw and took a slow step back, retreating from the edge of the door before she could notice.
He wouldn't let himself be pulled in.
He tore his gaze away and stepped back, jaw tight, slipping out of sight before she noticed him. Not a word spoken. Not a sound left behind.
Just the quiet crackle of something shifting.
“For God’s sake, Iraaya!” kritika’s dramatic tone rang through the kitchen like thunder. She swept in with all the flair of a movie heroine entering a climax scene, her phone still clutched in one hand like a scepter. “Are you planning to marry the kitchen or what?”
She crossed her arms with a playful glare. “Seriously though, you’ve been in here so long, I was about to send a search party. With torches and dogs.”
Iraaya chuckled, a soft blush coloring her cheeks. “No, no — I’m done. I was just letting the halwa thicken a little more. It looked too runny.”
Kritika made a beeline to the stove, peeking dramatically into the vessel like a royal food critic. “Hmm… impressive.”
She inhaled deeply. “Smells divine.”
Iraaya wiped her hands on a clean towel, laughing. “Well, my father always says good food needs patience.”
“Which I have none of.” Kritika declared proudly, tossing her braid behind her shoulder. “But what I do have is to give you a tour, You haven’t seen anything yet ?”
“I only saw the main hall and the kitchen,” Iraaya admitted, glancing toward the doorway. “The rest still feels… off-limits.”
Kritika gasped. “Excuse me? Off-limits? Sweetheart, this is your palace now too— sort of. You live here, you breathe here, you eat here… so you must explore.”
Before Iraaya could argue, Kritika linked their arms with practiced ease. “Come, bestie. Your very own VIP palace tour begins now. Curated by yours truly.”
Iraaya laughed and nodded, the smile lingering on her lips
And so they walked.
From one grand room to another— tall ceilings kissed by hand-painted murals, intricate chandeliers sparkling with morning light, corridors flanked by antique armors and oil paintings that seemed to whisper stories of another era.
Iraaya moved in awe, her eyes wide, her steps slower with every turn. Each corner of the palace held a kind of magic— an old-world charm untouched by time.
Her fingers itched to touch the tapestries, the carved pillars, the etched glass windows.
Meanwhile, Kritika continued her energetic commentary.
“That room? We used to sneak in there for hide-and-seek and got locked in once— for three hours. Samar bhai nearly cried.”
“This mirror? Imported from Italy. But I swear it makes my nose look big.”
“Nani says this corridor is haunted, but it’s probably just the old pipes—though once I did hear—”
“Wait,” Iraaya cut in softly, slowing to a stop.
They had reached a smaller, quieter hallway, and beside it sat an antique sculpture displayed atop a narrow wooden console table.
It wasn’t grand or glittering— but elegant. Intricate. The kind of craftsmanship that held stories between its curves.
“Whoa,” she breathed, stepping forward. Her eyes traced the delicate inlays of White Marble Swan.
Without thinking, she reached out and ran her fingers lightly over the it.
But the surface was too smooth. The edg— too close to the table’s end.
It tipped.
She froze. Her breath lodged in her throat.
Time slowed.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the heart-shattering sound of crashing into a hundred pieces.
But there was no sound.
Just silence.
And then a hand.
Large. Steady.
Holding the sculpture firmly in place.
Her eyes snapped open.
Standing there was a man. Tall, strong— dressed in a plain white T-shirt and beige pants. His grip still firm on the antique.
His eyes met hers— calm but unreadable.
And just like that.
He gently placed the sculpture back where it belonged without a word.
His gaze lingered for a moment, then he straightened.
Iraaya’s breath was still catching up with her.
“Kritika!” the voice cut through the air.
Kritika, mid-sentence and fully animated, paused in her tracks.
Her eyes widened slightly as she turned, only now realizing she'd been walking ahead, lost in her own world, leaving Iraaya a few steps behind.
She spun around— and froze.
“Oh hey, There you are!” Kritika chirped, walking over. “Iraaya, meet him— this is Shahveer bhai. He just came back from the US.”
She beamed. “And Shahveer bhai, this is Iraaya— my new bestie and palace resident.”
The name hit her like a sharp gust.
Shahveer.
Her mind raced. Her chest tightened.
Vir.
Her eyes widened.
Blood roared in her ears.
That’s what they called him that night.
The name Yashraj Singh had whispered on that night when she shifted to the palace— “Vir.”
No title. No explanation.
Just that name.
And it had stayed with her, sharp and unspoken.
Now— here he was.
Standing inches from her.
And all this time… he was Shahveer Singh Rathore.
Royal.
Untouchable.
The breath she’d been holding finally escaped her lips— slow, stunned, disbelieving.
“Oh,” she managed.
The word tasted like surprise.
And dread.
And something she couldn’t yet name.
∘◦ ❈ ◦∘
How was the chapter, guys? I’d love to hear your thoughts!
Wasn’t Kritika just adorable? Her little moments totally melted my heart while writing them.
And what about Iraaya's confusion—thinking Shahveer is Vir? 😂 Oof, the drama is just getting started!
Tell me in the comments what you felt, what made you smile—and don’t forget to vote and share your love.
Your support keeps me going. See you in the next chapter!
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