The hum of the Bentley's engine filled the heavy silence, blending with the crunch of tires against the gravel as they sped down the road toward the Rathore Palace.
Abhimanyu's hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale under his skin. His jaw was locked, eyes focused straight ahead. Next to him in the front passenger seat, Meghna quietly scrolled through her phone, occasionally glancing at the GPS or forwarding Abhimanyu's schedule updates. She knew better than to speak when he was in this mood.
In the backseat, a different kind of silence stirred—quieter, heavier.
Meera sat on the left, her frame huddled against the door. Her forehead leaned on the cool glass of the window, eyes unfocused as the golden deserts of Rajasthan passed by in a blur. Her lips trembled as she bit back the rising ache in her chest, her fingers subconsciously clutching the edge of her dupatta with the desperation of a child holding onto her last thread of comfort.
Dhriti sat beside her, watching every broken twitch in her friend's body with aching helplessness.
She couldn't take it anymore.
Wordlessly, Dhriti reached out, cupping Meera's trembling left hand in both of hers. Her touch was warm, steady—nothing like the chaos Meera felt inside her.
Meera's breath caught in her throat.
And then, without warning, a single tear slid down her cheek.
Dhriti squeezed her hand gently. She didn't say anything at first—because what could she possibly say?
But then, in a soft voice, she whispered,
"You have been to the palace a hundred times. But this time… you're coming there as my bhabhi. Abhimanyu's wife."
Meera's shoulders stiffened at the word wife. It still didn't feel real. It felt like someone else's life. Someone else's nightmare.
Dhriti looked down, trying to gather her thoughts, and continued in a low, almost reverent tone,
"You'll meet everyone now… not just as my friend, but as a part of the royal family."
Meera didn't respond, but she blinked slowly—processing.
Dhriti gently wiped away the tear that clung to Meera's jaw.
"There's my mom and dad—His Highness Maharaja Devendra Singh Rathore and Maharani Shanta Devi Rathore.
They stay in the east wing. That's the heart of the palace. My elder brother Daksh—well, you've already met him. He's the crown prince, and… not someone easily swayed." Her voice trailed off for a moment.
"Then there's Chhote Raja Sa, my dad's younger brother—Raja Rajveer Singh Rathore. He lives with his wife, Rani Vaidehi, and their twins—Veer and Samaira. Both of them are younger than us and very mischievous, you'll see."
A soft smile flickered across Dhriti's lips at the thought of the twins.
"And there's Bade Raja Sa—my father's elder cousin, Raja Mahendra Pratap Singh. He lives with Rani Devika and their son, Karan. They're quieter, more traditional. You'll need to be careful around them—especially Rani Devika. She has… sharp opinions."
Meera finally turned slightly toward Dhriti, eyes red but attentive.
Dhriti gave her a faint smile and added gently,
"And Abhi… He stays in the south wing. Right next to Daksh Bhai's quarters. They handle most of the royal affairs and businesses from there. It's practically their own empire inside the palace."
Meera's breath was shaky, but her grip on Dhriti's hand tightened. She wasn't alone—not entirely.
And even if she had been forced into this… she was going to walk into that palace with her head held high.
She had to.
She had no other choice.
The palace gates swung open with a deep, metallic groan. The guards saluted in unison as the Bentley rolled in, trailed by two black SUVs. The air around the Rathore estate seemed to shimmer with gold as the desert sun poured itself over the ivory domes and sandstone arches of the palace.
Meera sat rigid in the back seat, her throat dry, hands clammy. She didn't feel like a bride. She didn't feel like anyone special. She felt like a prisoner being walked to her new cell—an ornate, beautifully crafted one, but a cell all the same.
As the car came to a smooth stop before the palace steps, Abhimanyu stepped out first, his expression unreadable, the sunlight catching the sharp angles of his face. The guards bowed again, while his secretary Meghna quickly stepped out and moved to the side. The back door opened, and Dhriti gently took Meera's hand, guiding her out of the car.
And that's when Meera saw them.
The entire Rathore family was gathered at the grand entrance.
In the center stood Maharaja Devendra Singh Rathore, his tall frame regal in an ivory silk kurta embroidered with gold thread, his face lined with age and wisdom. Beside him, Maharani Shanta Devi stood composed in a rich crimson saree, her forehead adorned with a regal bindi, a flicker of confusion shadowing her face as she looked at Meera.
To their right, Daksh Rathore, the crown prince, stood like a fortress of silent strength, flanked by Raja Rajveer and Raja Mahendra, both with their wives, Rani Vaidehi and Rani Devika. The younger members—Veer, Samaira, and Karan—stood a little off to the side, whispering amongst themselves with eyes wide and curious.
There was an unmistakable shock that rippled through the gathered family as they saw Meera, her worn face, the red in her eyes, the unshed grief on her lips, and the heavy bridal red dupatta now hanging lopsided over her head.
Shanta Devi opened her mouth to speak, confusion giving way to concern, but Dhriti subtly shook her head—an urgent, silent plea. She placed two fingers over her lips and made a small gesture downward with her hand.
Don't say anything. Not now.
Her mother nodded faintly, understanding that there was more going on than met the eye.
A few palace women stepped forward with a silver thali glinting in their hands—ready for the ritual of Ghar Pravesh. Even if this was not how anyone expected Abhimanyu's marriage to unfold, traditions in the palace weren't to be broken. A bride was entering the house—and every bride, no matter the story, was to be welcomed with honor.
As Abhimanyu and Meera walked together to the entrance, he didn't touch her, didn't offer his arm. He simply walked beside her like a silent shadow.
Meera looked up, eyes swimming, her heart thudding as the thali was brought before her. The priestess circled it thrice around her face, chanting soft mantras in Sanskrit. The aarti flame flickered, reflected in Meera's eyes as though her soul itself were trembling.
Dhriti stood beside her, whispering gently, "It's okay. Just follow my lead."
The palace maid dipped Meera's fingers into a shallow silver bowl filled with alta—a ceremonial red dye, symbolic of blessings, of tradition, of being rooted. Her hands shook, but she pressed her palms against the spotless white marble wall beside the ornate main door, leaving two crimson handprints behind.
A forever mark.
A silent declaration that she had entered this house as a bride.
A small silver pot filled with rice was placed at her feet. Meera's breath hitched.
"This is the last step," Dhriti whispered, nudging her gently. "Just push it with your right foot and walk in."
Meera blinked, the world around her swimming. Her bare foot hesitated before lightly nudging the pot forward. It toppled slowly, the grains of rice spilling in a soft cascade.
And just like that, Meera Singhania became Meera Rajput—the newest bride of the palace.
As she stepped over the threshold, her feet trailing the red of the alta, her entry into this grand household was complete.
But it didn't feel like a beginning.
It felt like a countdown.
Abhimanyu hadn't looked at her once during the entire ritual. And Meera didn't dare look at him either.
Because if she did, she was afraid she'd collapse all over again.
But everyone was watching.
So she smiled.
Just like he'd ordered her to.