RANVIJAY VARDHANA POV

The air in my room was a heavy cover, thick with the smell of wet earth and the lasting image of the flash flood's ruin.

Outside the thin cloth windows, the heavy rain beat an endless rhythm against the wrecked land of the faraway area. Inside, under the shaky, weak light of one lamp, the choice I had made weighed heavily on me, brought on not by wanting, but by cold, firm duty.

A week. It had only been a week. The Vardhana Foundation, working under my own exact, though deeply unwilling, eye, had been sent out. My being there wasn't the action of someone with too much feeling, but a careful count of royal duty.

A prince's presence, even during such disorder, was a needed cover—it gave rightness to the cause, it quieted the sneaky public whispers of not caring that could wear away the monarchy's base.

And In the middle of the mess, I had seen her: Meera. Barely twenty, maybe, her world completely broken. No family. No home.

Yet, amidst the grim picture, she moved with a strange grace, her focus entirely on a child, playing with him, laughing, as if the very ground hadn't shaken just moments before, swallowing homes and lives. It was odd, a splash of bright, brave life in a scene of death, and it had marked itself onto my mind.

My leg, a pulsing sign of the chaos, was badly broken, forcing me to use crutches and stay inside for weeks within these palace walls. But it was the other injury, the hidden one, that hurt more.

Chunnu Lal. The name she'd gifted me out of pure spite echoed in the secret parts of my mind, a shameful tease, a sharp reminder of the situation that had created this newest, unwanted chain.

My broken foot, resting on a pillow, throbbed with a dull pain. I closed my eyes, taking a sharp, rough breath, only to be struck by the same pair of eyes.Wide, very scared, or was it surprise? I couldn't tell. They made my sight fuzzy, a constant ghost since the moment I had come back to the palace.

Those eyes—the color of warm honey—they refused to leave me. My wife. A secret load on shoulders already bent under the weight of an empire.

And then, the ghostly touch of her lips, pressing against mine, desperate, as if to save me. My body jumped, a deep, sudden reaction that sent a fresh wave of pain through my broken leg.

I groaned, reaching quickly for my bandaged calf, but it was no use. A bitter sigh left me, a sound of total defeat, brought low by a task as simple as dealing with my own injury. My eyelids grew heavy, giving in to the tiredness of a mind in pain.

The soft, steady knock at the large wooden door of my room shattered the weak peace of my pre-dawn sleep. My eyes snapped open, and I tried to sit up fast, a basic urge to hide my weakness.

It was not me. I am strong.

"Come in," I ordered, my voice showing nothing of the inner trouble. Jorah, one of my most trusted men, entered, a tablet held tightly in his hands. Two guards, silent as ghosts, opened and closed the huge doors behind him.

"Good morning, Your Highness," he said, bowing with practiced respect.

I simply nodded, a short ending to the politeness. "Report, Jorah," I said sharply, the moment he was fully inside my private rooms.

My usual calm had vanished, replaced by a growing anger that moved beneath my skin. I stayed propped up in bed, a stack of unread financial reports lying accusingly on my side table. The Rival Group's latest moves felt completely unimportant compared to the immediate, irritating problem that filled my thoughts.

"Everything is back in its place, but there is a problem," Jorah began, his tone carefully plain.

I waited, my look fixed on him, my jaw tight.

"A small issue came up within the palace's vast house staff," he went on, carefully. "Several long-serving workers had quit suddenly, leaving holes that needed quick, quiet filling."

"Hmm," I hummed, a low sound in my throat, telling him to keep going.

"And for the safety of the villagers, and because of the crisis, Prince Shaurya has stated to hire all the workers from the flood-affected village," Jorah finished, his eyes briefly flicking towards me before settling back on his tablet.

"Hmm, okay," I mumbled, my eyes already fixed on the tablet screen he held, which was now showing my tight schedule for the day. "It's a good idea, what's the problem then?" I asked, finally raising my gaze to his face, a questioning intensity in my eyes.

"Your Highness, your... wif-" he stuttered, the word getting stuck in his throat, unfinished. My gaze pierced him, a silent, furious command that cut him off mid-sentence.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness, there is no problem," he quickly corrected himself, bowing deeply.

"You can leave now, and prepare for today's meeting," I dismissed, my voice flat, leaving no chance for debate. He bowed again, then left, the heavy doors closing with a soft dull sound behind him.

I let out a long, shuddering sigh, as if I had been holding my breath for an eternity. Why couldn't those eyes, those warm honey-colored eyes, stop haunting me? And then her lips, the desperate, ghostly pressure against mine. Why was it distracting me so profoundly?

It was nothing. It had to be nothing. Perhaps I had simply never truly looked at a woman before, and that was why the image of her kept circling, invading my thoughts. Yes. That was the truth. A logical explanation.

The crisp efficiency of the palace staff was a familiar, almost comforting, routine. The two valet attendants moved with practiced precision, their movements fluid as they navigated the space around my large, ornate bed. One gently pushed the pillow away from my bandaged foot, while the other carefully pulled back the heavy silk duvet. My body, usually quick and responsive, felt alien, hampered by the throbbing ache in my fractured leg.

"Your Highness," one murmured, his voice soft, as he positioned a velvet stool beside the bed. I swung my legs over, grimacing slightly as my injured foot, still swollen despite the meticulous care, touched the cool marble floor.

A white, silk dressing gown was draped over my shoulders, its weight comforting, a stark contrast to the vulnerability I felt. They moved as one, guiding me gently to a plush armchair, where fresh clothes were laid out.

The process of getting dressed was an exercise in controlled frustration. My right leg, held in a large brace, felt stiff and awkward. They helped me into tailored trousers, carefully maneuvering the fabric over the brace, then a crisp white shirt, followed by a waistcoat of deep sapphire.

Each button, each cufflink, was fastened with a precision I usually reserved for state affairs. My hair was brushed back, a few stubborn strands falling over my forehead, a minor imperfection I allowed for my injured state.

Finally, the crutches were brought, their gleaming chrome cold against my hands. I pushed myself up, a sharp intake of breath as my weight shifted, but I straightened my shoulders, refusing to show any weakness.

"You all can leave now," I stated, my voice rough, a dismissal. They bowed in unison, retreating with the same quiet efficiency as they had entered.

Navigating my chambers with the crutches was a tedious, aggravating task. Each swing of my body, each careful placement of the crutch tips on the polished floor, was a reminder of my current impotence.

My private study, a safe place of order and quiet, felt miles away, though it was connected to my bedchamber by a short, carpeted corridor. The door was heavy, solid oak, a barrier between my private thoughts and the demands of the world. I pushed it open with a shoulder, swung myself through, and let it click shut behind me.

The study embraced me with its familiar scent of old leather, paper, and polished wood. Rows of bound volumes lined the walls, maps of Aravati and its neighboring kingdoms adorned one wall, and my large mahogany desk dominated the center, already piled with documents.

I moved, a little more fluidly now that I was alone, to the desk, settling heavily into my ergonomic leather chair. The chair swiveled, allowing me to carefully position my leg.

I reached for the top file, my mind already shifting gears, immersing itself in the intricate web of statecraft. The details of regional economic policies, the latest reports from the intelligence agencies, the simmering tensions in the northern provinces - these were the puzzles I understood, the challenges I could conquer with logic and strategic thought. The phantom eyes, the unwelcome memory of those lips, began to recede, pushed back by the familiar rhythm of my duties.

I was deep in a proposal for agricultural reform when a sound, sweet and saccharine, sliced through the quiet concentration. The soft click of the latch, then the distinct creak of the door opening without warning.

"Ranvijay darling!"

My head snapped up, irritation flaring, cold and sharp. Anya. She stood in the open doorway, framed by the light from the corridor, her vibrant, perfectly styled red hair a jarring splash against the staid elegance of my study. She wore a dress of shimmering silk, clearly chosen to impress, and her eyes, bright and insistent, were fixed solely on me.

My jaw tightened. She had no right to be here, unannounced. No one entered my private study without explicit permission. My personal space, my privacy, was a fortress, and she had just breached its outer wall.

Before she could take another step, before that cloying perfume could fully assault my senses, I cut her off. My voice was a low, dangerous growl, laced with a frost that could chill the warmest day. "Anya. You entered my private study. Uninvited. And without knocking." Each word was precise, deliberate, a hammer blow. "This is a private chamber, not a public drawing-room."

Her smile faltered, a brief flicker of surprise crossing her face before it was replaced by a practiced pout. "Oh, Ranvu, don't be so stiff! I heard about your leg, and I was so worried! I just couldn't wait." She tried to recover, gliding forward, her hand reaching out, her fingers wrapping around my arm, a possessive grip that sent a jolt of pure annoyance through me.

Her face was too close, her perfume cloying. Her body pressed lightly against my side. I felt a surge of disgust, a visceral dislike for her clinging nature, her utter disregard for personal space, for my explicit disinterest. I subtly tried to shift away, but her grip was firm. This was a battle I had fought countless times.

"My well-being is not subject to informal visits, Anya," I stated, my voice devoid of warmth. "And my injury does not negate the protocols of this palace. Or my personal boundaries." I subtly tried to dislodge her hand, but she simply squeezed my arm tighter.

Just as I was formulating a more frigid response, a soft, almost imperceptible knock sounded at the study door. My head turned, a flicker of surprise, then irritation. Who else was defying my unspoken rules today?

The door opened, and she stood there.

Meera.

Why is she here?

My breath hitched. The world, which had just been Anya's cloying presence and my seething irritation, narrowed to a single point: her.

She held a silver tray, a modest teacup and a plate of biscuits upon it. In a maid's uniform, so unremarkable, seemed to cling to her quiet grace. Her eyes, those damned warm honey eyes, widened, reflecting the flickering lantern light. Shock. Pure, unadulterated shock mirrored my own.

Her gaze, hesitant, then flitted to Anya, still clinging to my arm, a vision of audacious possessiveness. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her features - surprise, perhaps a flash of understanding, then an immediate, profound shuttering, as if a mask had dropped into place.

Her head bowed almost instantly, a movement of ingrained deference that somehow stung me more than her initial shock.

Without a word, she moved forward, her steps silent on the carpet. She placed the tray with a barely audible clink on the nearest side table, avoiding my gaze entirely. Another brief, precise bow, her head still lowered, then she turned. And just as silently, she was gone, the door closing with a soft, final click.

.--♥--.

SHAURYA VARDHANA POV

The silence in the back of the armored sedan was the sound of my life: perfectly engineered, meticulously controlled, and utterly devoid of spontaneity. I wasn't just Prince Shaurya of Aravati; I was the CEO of Vardhana Tech & Infrastructure, and tonight, I was merely an appointment.

Before leaving the palace, I had sent a brief, obligatory text to my older brother.

To Bhai sa: Leaving for the Singh 'date.' Will secure the agreement.

He’d likely respond with a clipped "Good," or perhaps, if he wasn't currently locked in a critical meeting, a simple "Be well." Ranvijay bhai sa was a fortress of practicality, but I knew his stoicism hid a genuine devotion to the family. He viewed these necessary political marriages as shields, protective measures for those he cared about.

I adjusted the cuff of my bespoke silk suit—a tailored shield against a chaotic world. My marriage was a line item on a budget spreadsheet, and my mother, Queen Vasundhara, had been cold and surgical in her instructions.

"This is essential for the stability of the kingdom’s educational infrastructure, Shaurya," she reminded me. "Your fiancée, Lavanya Singh, is beautiful and sensible. This is a date. Be charming. Be appropriate. And secure the deal."

I despised that term: secure the deal. This wasn’t a date; it was a bilateral agreement, thinly veiled beneath the pretense of a linen suit and a bouquet of ridiculously expensive, blood-red roses.

It was the preliminary stage of a marriage of convenience, a merger between the Vardhana Dynasty and the formidable Singh telecom empire. Duty. Logic. Progress for all. And my heart, a negligible risk.

I was marrying a woman I’d met twice in formal settings, solely because her family’s empire was vital to my division’s mandate for nationwide digital infrastructure.

I leaned my forehead against the cool, armored glass. Outside, the evening traffic of Aravati blurred into streaks of neon. The city, usually a source of inspiration, felt tonight like a gilded cage.

“We’re approaching the district, Your Highness,” the driver murmured through the intercom.

I scanned the upscale residential area. Just ahead, a small, ancient Shiva temple glowed softly, illuminated by strings of fairy lights for the evening aarti.

"Stop here," I instructed suddenly. "I need a moment before the formal reception. Five minutes."

I pushed open the heavy door, stepping out onto the cobblestones. The air was immediately cleaner, scented not with exhaust, but with the heady perfume of jasmine and burning sandalwood. The oppressive weight of my own perfectionism seemed to lessen under the vast, quiet sky.

I walked toward the low stone wall surrounding the temple grounds, seeking silence. That's when I saw her.

She was sitting alone on the topmost step of the temple, her dark hair pulled back in a simple braid. She wore a modest, earth-toned tunic and looked utterly unremarkable—except for the worn, cloth-bound notebook in her hands and the way she held herself.

She wasn't writing; she was watching a young mother struggle with a cranky child. A gentle, knowing smile touched her lips—a smile of profound, quiet empathy.

As my eyes locked onto her, a sudden, blinding flash hit me—a flicker of an old, chaotic memory: a jarring sound of grinding metal, flashing emergency lights, and a small, insistent hand pulling me from danger. The image was gone instantly, leaving only a faint pulse of cold terror in my chest.

I know her. I’ve seen her before.

The thought was illogical, a phantom sensation. I, the Prince who remembered every budget forecast and political treaty, felt a frustrating blankness when I tried to place her face. I had a sudden, overwhelming sense of familiarity.

And then she turned her head.

Her eyes were large, the color of emerald, and for a fleeting, agonizing second, they met my gaze. The faint memory of the accident and the mysterious small hand seemed to resonate again. The granite facade of cold logic I lived by cracked.

There was no calculation in those eyes, no recognition of my royal title—only a deep, perceptive sadness mixed with an unshakeable inner resilience. It felt like looking into a mirror of my own hidden struggle, a soul that understood the weight of burdens yet refused to break.

The corner of her mouth quirked—a tiny, wry acknowledgement of our unexpected meeting and then she looked back down at her notebook.

"Your Highness?" my chief security guard asked quietly. "The Singh residence is just around the corner."

The interruption was a shock of cold water. I blinked, shattering the moment.

The image of the emerald-eyed girl seared itself behind my eyelids. I hadn't registered her clothes or her height, only the unvarnished truth in her expression. Who was she? It didn’t matter. I was here for Lavanya.

I forced the sensation out of my mind, locking it away behind the granite facade. The feeling of familiarity was just a trick of the evening light, a romantic distraction. And I am Prince Shaurya, the man of duty. I was here to secure a future, not chase a fleeting, romantic distraction.

I adjusted my jacket, the weight of the Vardhana crest suddenly heavy on my chest. "Right. Let’s go."

The Singh mansion gates swept open. I walked inside, composed and polished, ready to meet my future bride.

Lavanya Singh. She was everything the kingdom required: exquisite, articulate, and perfectly aligned with the Vardhana business interests.

"Prince Shaurya?" It was Mrs. Singh, already approaching with a rehearsed smile. "Welcome. Lavanya is waiting inside."

I smiled the practiced, reserved smile of a statesman, yet I found myself searching the room—not for the intended bride, but for the quiet, emerald-eyed observer I had just left behind.

My focus returned, but the cold clarity was fractured. I knew, logically, that the woman waiting inside was my future, my duty, and the stability of my kingdom.

But all I could register was the strange ache of recognition for the girl whose quiet presence had just surfaced a buried truth.

I walked toward the mansion, ready to meet my fiancée, but haunted by the deep, emerald eyes of a stranger. This marriage of convenience had just become inconveniently complicated for me.

.--♥--.

VEDIKA VARDHANA POV

The news of Crown Prince Ranvijay's sudden rescue from the flood zone cut through the Palace like wildfire, managing to reach even the quietest, most private halls.

A real flash of fear went through Vedika for her oldest brother. He was the steady center of their family, the picture of unyielding, royal power. His vulnerability now, the fact that he was actually shaken, showed the terrible fragile nature of life—even the supposedly charmed life of a royal.

The palace security, always tense, now buzzed with a clear, new worry. Vikram, her constant shadow, was even more watchful than usual, his sharp grey eyes always scanning their surroundings as if expecting the disaster to walk right through the doorways.

She felt the tightening of her already fancy cage, the royal family pulling inward, naturally closing ranks when faced with a perceived outside threat.

Their dynamic was a constant, unspoken tug-of-war—a deeply complicated relationship rooted in a past they could no longer claim. They had been friends in childhood, but that easy connection shattered the moment Vikram took his oath to the Royal Guard, forcing an irreparable distance between them.

Now, Vedika sees Vikram as an immovable obstacle, a highly efficient, permanently present reminder of her gilded captivity. She would test his patience, making up complex plans to slip away from his watchful gaze, seeing it as a game to assert her freedom. Vikram, in turn, viewed Vedika as his most challenging assignment.

I was in the private training room, doing my ceremonial dance moves. The smooth, lively movements were not a way to let go; they were a required show. My mother insisted that a princess must master the graceful arts.

Each twist and turn was proof of her expectations, not my passion. My feet, covered in white bandages because of the sores and strain, protested with every step. The pain was dull and steady, a physical sign of my emotional prison.

Vikram stood rigidity by the doors, his silhouette framed against the arched windows, a dark, immovable form.

"Are you worried about Bhai sa, Vikram?" I asked, interrupting a forced turn. My eyes narrowed, focusing on him instead of my reflection. "He seemed... quite shaken when he came back. More so than I’ve ever seen him."

Vikram’s gaze stayed fixed on the distant gardens, but his voice was completely calm, perfectly measured. "The Crown Prince faced severe challenges, Princess. He is strong, but no one can escape the power of nature." His answer was professional, a wall of avoidance.

"Power of nature, or powers within Aravati?" I pushed, stepping toward him. I tried to walk normally, but a small wince escaped me as my weight landed on my aching foot. My blue eyes held a spark of suspicious. "The rumours of aid disappearing, the whispers of corruptions... do you think Bhai sa found something more than just mud and water?"

Vikram finally turned, his gaze meeting mine. For a long moment, he simply looked at me, and in that brief quiet, his usual lack of emotion suddenly slipped. I noticed a flash of something in his sharp eyes—a deep seriousness, a hint of danger, far beyond normal security worries. He knew something. He always did.

"My duty, Princess," he said, his voice dropping low, "is to protect the royal family from all threats. Seen and unseen. Known and unknown." His words were a subtle warning, a silent confirmation that something deeper was indeed happening. He wasn't just talking about the floods; he was talking about palace secrets, about traitors.

I held his gaze, a thrilling and frightening understanding starting to dawn on me. The world outside my cage was far more complex, and dangerously corrupt, than I had ever imagined. The unseen strings of our connection tightened, pulled by the shared knowledge of the threatening truth hiding just beneath the surface of royal life.

"Let's go, my practice is over."

As the evening approached, the pain in my feet had become a dull throb, making even the plush palace carpet feel like a rough stone. I was sitting on my bed, trying to carefully peel away the layers of damp bandage, wincing with every movement. I gave up with a frustrated sigh and threw the ruined cloth onto the floor.

A soft, almost silent knock came at the door.

"Enter," I called out, assuming it was a maid.

But It was Vikram. He wasn't in his perfect uniform, but a simple dark polo shirt, yet his manner was still all business. He didn't meet my eyes directly. He never did when he wasn't on duty, as if avoiding any personal link.

"Princess," he said, his voice short and plain. "The outside security change has been adjusted. I thought you should be aware."

He delivered the information in three short, dense sentences. He then paused, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder.

"That's all?" I interjected.

"The medical supplies in your personal cabinet were checked recently," he added, his voice still flat. "They were found to be low on special hydrocolloid dressings and antiseptic cream for persistent friction wounds. I have ensured they have been replaced."

He didn't look at my feet, which were bare and clearly swollen. He didn't say anything about the discarded, blood-tinged bandage on the floor. He simply gave a piece of information, saying the needed replacements were due to a routine check.

"Thank you, Vikram," I managed, fighting the sudden urge to tell him to sit down, to ask him why he bothered.

He gave a slight, formal nod of his head, his eyes finally brushing over my face for just a fraction of a second before he turned. "Good night, Princess."

He was out the door before I could reply. I stared at the closed mahogany, then slowly made my way to the cabinet. There, sitting atop the neatly stocked shelf, was a brand new, perfectly sealed box of the exact, expensive dressing I needed—the kind my mother would never think to order.

It was a small, silent act of care, hidden beneath the perfect shield of professional duty and palace routines. He would never admit he saw my pain, or that he cared enough to fix it. He would only ensure the supplies were adequate. And in that stiff, unspoken action, I saw the true, fiercely guarded heart of my protector.

I sat at my vanity, the untouched box of hydrocolloid dressings resting on the marble next to my elbow. The expensive package felt heavy, a silent, damning piece of proof. He hadn't said a word, yet the message was clearer than any verbal declaration: I see your pain, and I will fix it, but I will never acknowledge that I care.

My fingers traced the outline of the box. Vikram. He was the only person in this palace, besides bhai sa, who could manage the confusing system to replace a specialized item without any official paper landing on my mother’s desk.

We had been friends in childhood. The memory was a dull ache. Before the uniform, before the promise, he had been just Vikram—the quiet boy who taught me how to climb the high stone walls of the stable yard and patch up the resulting scraped knees without crying.

Now, he was a walking shield, his life reduced to a single purpose: guarding me. And my life was reduced to testing his limits.

I looked at my reflection. Electric blue eyes, a rebellious tangle of dark hair. I was twenty years old, a princess, and a prisoner.

I bent down to carefully put the dressing on the worst of the sores on the ball of my foot. The cool, soft feel was instant relief, thanks to him. The antiseptic cream stung, a sharp reminder of the cost of my mother's obsession with graceful arts.

A knock came at the door, sharp and sudden. "Princess Vedika, your presence is needed in the Queen's sitting room. Now." It was Lavanya, Shaurya's fiancée, her voice short and demanding.

I sighed, pulling a flowing jade silk dress over my head—a color my stylist had deemed "young yet royal." The relief of the cream was quickly overcome by the fear of another family meeting.

The tension since Ranvijay Bhai sa return had made the palace a suffocating environment, and Lavanya's being there only increased the heavy politeness.

I slipped on a pair of comfortable flats—a small, silent victory for my bandaged feet—and opened the door.

Vikram stood there, already in position, his eyes instantly dropping to my feet for a tiny moment before looking straight back up. He didn't say anything about the shoes. He didn't comment on the bandage. He merely gave his standard, neutral assessment.

"Princess," he acknowledged, turning to walk in front of me.

"Let's go, Vikram," I murmured, stepping out into the hall. "My mother and my favorite future sister-in-law are waiting. I wouldn't want to keep them from pulling apart the next charity event."

As we walked, the pain in my foot was manageable, thanks to his silent intervention. I watched the straight, disciplined line of his back, the stiff set of his shoulders.

You may stand between me and freedom, Vikram, I thought, a strange mix of anger and reliance growing in my chest, but you also ensure I can still walk.

I knew, with frightening certainty, that the day would come when his duty and my desperation crashed together. And when it did, I wasn't sure if he would be the one to break my cage, or the one to lock it tighter.

To be continued....

Here is the first ever chapter hearts

Longest chapter I wrote till now 😭

and the amount of time I edited this chapter is insane.

I hope you guys like it.

Comment down your thoughts here.

Tata bye bye guys (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

Thank you for reading.