They reached the palace about twenty minutes later. Safely. Devika had executed her plan flawlessly, drawing the remaining enemy vehicles onto a completely different route through the hills while their own convoy slipped away unnoticed into the royal gates.
The moment the Range Rover ground to a halt in the courtyard, Rajveer turned sharply to his brother. "Send backup to the princess."
Vikram only offered a proud, relaxed smile, gesturing for Rajveer to step out of the vehicle. "It's okay, Bhai. She can handle this."
Rajveer exhaled a deep, slow breath, trying to steady the residual adrenaline spiking in his veins, and stepped out onto the marble courtyard. Waiting for him in front of the grand entrance was his family—the dear, long-lost faces he hadn't seen in nearly a decade. His grandparents, his uncle and aunt, his younger siblings, his mother, and his father, who sat quietly in a wheelchair. His father had been paralyzed on the left side of his body just a few weeks before Rajveer's wedding seven years ago; seeing him now brought a sharp pang to Rajveer's chest.
The entire palace was decorated like a bride, draped in marigolds and lights for the upcoming festivities. Rajveer looked at his family, noting the unshed tears in their eyes as they scanned him from head to toe, taking in the man he had become.
He greeted each one of them with deep respect. His grandmother stepped forward, performing a traditional aarti to ward off evil eyes before officially welcoming him back into his ancestral home.
His wife was nowhere to be seen, of course.
The family was entirely oblivious to the ambush on the highway. Neither Rajveer nor Vikram uttered a single word about the gunfire; neither of them wanted to ruin the joyous atmosphere of his homecoming. They spent a short while talking in the main hall, catching up on lost time, before the elders gently insisted he go up to his quarters to freshen up. The evening was packed—it was his younger brother Harsh's haldi ceremony, and the celebrations would begin soon.
Rajveer walked upstairs to his wing of the palace. Every corridor, every arched doorway, and every antique chandelier remained exactly as it had been seven years ago. The preservation of the space brought a flood of old memories rushing back, unexpectedly warming his heart.
But the moment he pushed open the heavy double doors of his bedchamber, his boots froze against the floor. His gaze locked instantly onto the figure in front of the vanity mirror.
The black tactical leather and motorcycle boots were gone. In their place, she wore a traditional, vibrant lehenga-choli paired with minimal, elegant jewelry. Devika was leaning in close to the glass, thoroughly engrossed in a very meticulous task: she was masking the fresh cuts on her face. She expertly applied a smooth, flesh-toned medical tape over the lacerations, then layered concealer over it with practiced precision, rendering the injuries completely invisible to the naked eye. At the top of her forehead, a vibrant line of sindoor sat like a scarlet crown, beautifully contrasting against her skin.
She was fixing her makeup while listening—and nearly dancing—to a upbeat track playing from her phone, completely unaware that she was no longer alone.
'Damn,' Rajveer thought, a quiet wave of disbelief washing over him. 'She is beautiful.'
He couldn't even pin down what captivated him the most. Was it the fierce depth of her eyes, the way her hair caught the light, the curve of her rosy lips, or this surprisingly carefree, dancing silhouette?
When she finally caught his reflection in the mirror, she froze. Rajveer braced himself, expecting her to be shocked, embarrassed, or perhaps even cold given their history. Instead, her face broke into a wide, radiant smile. She turned around and practically hopped toward him like an excited child.
"Vahan kyun khare hai? Aap hi ka kamra hai, andar aayen!" she said brightly, reaching out to catch him by the wrist and pull him into the room.
Rajveer moved completely robotically, letting himself be led. His eyes were entirely fixed on her face, completely fascinated by the speed of light at which her expressions changed. One moment she was a lethal highway operative, and the next, she was a whirlwind of domestic energy.
"Chai piyenge, coffee, juice ki paani?" she asked in a single breath, gently pressing his shoulders to make him sit on the edge of the sprawling bed.
It took Rajveer a few seconds to process that a question had actually been asked. Devika stood patiently in front of him, hands clasped, waiting for his response.
"Haan... Umm... Paani," he managed to clear his throat and reply.
Her smile grew even sweeter. She glided over to the bedside table, poured a fresh glass of water, and handed it to him.
Before he could drink, her phone rang on the vanity, momentarily breaking her attention. She checked the screen, muted it, and turned back to him with an efficient nod. "Aap fresh ho jayen. Kapde dressing room mein hain."
As she spoke, Rajveer suddenly realized he had been staring at her without a single blink for the past five minutes. He inwardly cursed himself, forcing his eyes down to the glass of water.
He gave a tight nod. Devika turned and began walking toward the door, but just as her hand touched the brass handle, she spun a neat one-hundred-and-eighty degrees on her heels to face him again.
"Ek aakhri question."
This time, Rajveer caught a rare glimpse of vulnerability. Her ears were turning a soft shade of pink, and she nervously bit her lower lip before finding his eyes.
"Main.. Main aapko Raj kahun, Veer, ki aeji-ooji chalega?"
Rajveer just stared at her, utterly flabbergasted, the word "Jii?"slipping past his lips before he could stop his sophisticated Oxford brain from malfunctioning.
Devika's cheeks flushed a deeper crimson. "Nevermind. Fresh ho jaiye!" she said hurriedly, turning on her heel and practically running out of the room, leaving him alone in the sudden silence.
He bathed, letting the hot water wash away the residual dust of the desert and the adrenaline of the highway ambush. Stepping out, he made his way to the walk-in dressing room adjacent to the bathroom.
Inside, he stopped to observe the space. His clothes were neatly arranged, immaculately ironed, and perfectly color-coded in a designated section right beside hers. In stark contrast, her side of the wardrobe was a chaotic vibrant mess—clothes stuffed haphazardly onto hangers, drawers left slightly ajar, and elegant footwear lying scattered here and there on the floor. He couldn't help but wonder if she had simply been in a terrible hurry today, or if she was naturally far from a perfectionist.
Buttoning up a fresh linen kurta, he headed downstairs.
As he approached the grand dining hall, his ears picked up the clinking of cutlery and a murmur of voices. His first instinctual thought was that this must be a formal administrative meeting of some sort; in his childhood, the Rathore family rarely sat at the dining table together unless it was to discuss business or politics.
But the next second, a shocking reality hit him.
They were smiling. No—they were laughing. They were teasing each other ruthlessly, and the epicenter of all the teasing was the princess, who was breezily moving around the massive teak table serving them food. She was tossing back witty retorts to every single jab, causing the elders to laugh uncontrollably.
Rajveer froze at the entrance of the hall. For as long as he could remember, it had been his silent, impossible dream to see his family look like this—sitting around a meal without tearing each other apart or calculating their next political move. He stared blankly, a surreal feeling washing over him. This couldn't be his family. For a fleeting moment, he genuinely wondered if he had walked into the wrong palace.
His eyes tracked Devika. Had this petite woman, this small figure who was currently making his notoriously stern grandfather smile, managed to bring about this monumental shift? Had the mere tune of her silver anklets echoing through these cold, marble corridors completely transformed the emotional fabric of his house—and that too, in just seven years?
A sudden burst of cheers and playful whistles erupted from the table, drawing his attention to the left. His mother was gently wheeling his father into the dining hall.
"Ohoooo! Maa sa to kaatil lag rahi hai aaj!" Devika cried out teasingly, dramatically cracking her knuckles against her temples to ward off the evil eye from her mother-in-law. His mother immediately slapped Devika's shoulder in mock annoyance, her cheeks flushing pink with sheer shyness.
"Are? Humari taraf to koi dhyaan hi nhi de raha?" his father complained, his face twisting into a pout of mock anger.
Rajveer's jaw almost dropped in utter shock at what happened next. Devika stepped up and playfully pinched his father's cheek.
Rajveer remembered his father as the single most terrifying, strict disciplinarian in the entire world during his youth. Nobody—not even his mother—had ever dared to be casual or completely free around him. Yet, here was Devika, pinching the cheeks of the formidable former Maharaja like he was a toddler, a bright grin on her face.
"Are Handsome! Aap par hi to dhyaan rehta hai humara! Humara dil jo chura liya hai aapne!" she cooed smoothly.
Even Vikram, who Rajveer knew to be the quietest, most reserved boy in the family, let out a loud laugh, physically holding his stomach at the exchange.
"Are Jaaneman! Aap ka hi to sahara hai. Aapki maa sa se to ab ummeed hi chod di hai humne!" his father shot back in the exact same teasing tone, winking as his mother pushed the wheelchair closer to the head of the table.
Rajveer just stood anchored to the threshold, entirely overwhelmed by a tidal wave of conflicting emotions. He was wrapped in shock, in sudden deep affection, in a lingering sadness for the years he had missed, and a profound, quiet happiness.
Devika's eyes scanned the room and finally landed on him. The moment she saw him standing there, her eyes sparkled with even greater intensity. Breaking away from the elders, she hopped toward him in the exact same animated manner she had in their bedroom.
Without a trace of hesitation, she grabbed him firmly by the wrist and dragged him toward his designated seat at the center of the family table. And just like before, the corporate sovereign of a global empire could only follow her, entirely robotic and completely captivated.
She sat down right beside him—or rather, her sisters-in-law practically shoved her into the vacant chair next to his, their voices dripping with playful malice.
"Are baithiye, baithiye. Aapke kunwar sa aaye hain," they teased in unison.
Instantly, the exact same crimson flush crawled up to the tips of Devika's ears. She bit her lower lip in a desperate bid to hide her shyness, her eyes dropping completely to the plates as she began serving him generous portions of food.
As the sound of clinking cutlery filled the air, his aunt leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "To janab," she started, her tone heavily laced with mischief, "kaisi lagi aapko humari bahurani?! Pasand aayi?"
Rajveer froze mid-bite. He looked up hesitantly, the weight of the entire table's attention suddenly shifting onto him. Beside him, Devika's eyes darted toward his face, wide and quiet, waiting for his answer with a palpable, expectant stillness.
"Umm... Acchi hai," he managed to clear his throat and mutter.
The response was simple, but it was more than enough to trigger a fresh wave of loud, teasing cheers and whistles from his siblings. Devika quickly lowered her head, pulling the edge of her *dupatta* slightly forward to hide her flaming cheeks. She wasn't eating.
---
By the time evening arrived, the palace was buzzing with the vibrant energy of the haldi ceremony. When Rajveer went up to change, he found a beautiful, multicolored kurta laid out meticulously on his bed—no doubt chosen and left there by Devika.
He pulled it on and headed downstairs, instantly becoming the center of attention. As the future king returning after seven long years, he was surrounded by a sea of eager relatives and high-profile guests, all waiting to greet him. But even as he made polite conversation, his eyes instinctively scanned the crowd until they finally fell on his wife.
She was wearing a lehenga-choli crafted from the exact same multicolored fabric and design as his kurta. Observing her closely, Rajveer realized a distinct pattern in her style: she clearly preferred modesty, always ensuring her back and waist were heavily draped with structured dupattas, paired exclusively with elegant half-sleeve or full-sleeve blouses. Today, she wore a striking full-sleeve blouse, her wrists adorned with a beautiful clatter of traditional bangles, keeping her jewelry surprisingly minimal. Her dupatta was pinned neatly over her head, secured tightly by a thick, golden hairband—a clever modification, he realized, to prevent the fabric from slipping since she practically danced and hopped every time she moved.
The moment her eyes found him through the crowd, her gaze widened. Her smile grew impossibly bright as she took him in from head to toe, her face radiating pure, unfiltered happiness because he had actually worn the outfit she picked out.
Catching his eye across the room, she playfully brought her thumb and index finger together, forming a universal "looking beautiful" sign, pairing the gesture with a dramatic, cute pout.
A rare, unbidden smile threatened to break across Rajveer's lips. Catching himself, he quickly suppressed it, offering her a subtle, elegant bow in acknowledgment of the compliment.
Naturally, his sharp-eyed sisters caught the silent exchange. They immediately began chanting her name and teasing her mercilessly, causing a flustered Devika to grab their hands and drag them shyly toward the safety of the adjoining puja room.
The courtyard was alive with music as Harsh and his bride-to-be, Nandini, took their places on a magnificent, lotus-shaped golden seat. The ritual began with deep reverence; first, his grandparents stepped up to apply the auspicious yellow paste to the couple, followed by his parents, and then his uncle and aunt.
Then, it was his turn. Rajveer stepped forward, applying the haldi with practiced, dignified restraint.
Next came Devika. While she applied the paste to Nandini with gentle, traditional care, she completely abandoned all royal decorum the second she turned to Harsh. With a mischievous grin, she gathered a massive handful of haldi and practically rubbed it all over his face mercilessly, just as everyone expected of her.
"Oh, looking beautiful, Harsh!" she laughed, stepping back.
Spitting out a bit of the paste, a yellow-faced Harsh let out a mock roar. He scooped up a massive dollop of haldi from the silver platter and lunged out of the lotus seat, chasing a shrieking Devika across the courtyard like a child. Devika scrambled for cover, darting through the laughing guests until she leaped directly behind Rajveer's broad shoulders, using him as a human shield.
Gripping the back of his multicolored kurta, she yelled out dramatically, "Bacha lijiye! Kaise pati hain?!!"
Rajveer didn't flinch. As Harsh charged forward, Rajveer simply stepped into his brother's line of sight, raising a single, authoritative hand. His calm, unyielding posture instantly brought Harsh to a grinning halt. With the threat neutralized, the laughter subsided, and the traditional ceremony resumed its lively pace, though Rajveer could still feel the warmth of his wife's hands lightly brushing against his back.
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