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Always expect the unexpected.

I had one rule in life.

But as I sit in the backseat of this vintage, velvet-upholstered car speeding toward the royal palace of Devgarh, I realize that no amount of preparation could have ever prepared me for this.

The dusty roads snake through lush greenery, and hills rise in the distance like silent guardians of some ancient, forgotten world. But none of that matters to me right now. What has me lost in thought is the absurdity of my current situation. 

A royal engagement? Me? Adhira Rathore.

A marketing executive with a caffeine addiction and a closet full of statement pantsuits. If irony were a sport, I'd have just won gold.

It sounds like something out of those over-the-top Bollywood dramas I secretly binge but would never admit to watching. Arranged marriages in 2024—who would have thought?

The car behind mine carries my parents. Why we couldn't travel together is beyond me, but part of me wonders if this is their way of preparing me for what's coming—or distancing themselves from the disaster waiting to happen.

Classic move. Abandon the ship before it sinks.

I sigh, glancing out the window at the seemingly endless countryside. I mutter under my breath. "What's next? Dowries paid in camels?"

The driver, a burly man in his forties, glances at me through the rearview mirror. "Miss Rathore? Did you say something?"

"Just talking to myself," I say with a wave of my hand, sinking deeper into the plush seat. "It's a hobby I've picked up since realizing I'm being shipped off like an Amazon package."

I catch him trying to suppress a smile, and I smirk to myself. At least someone's entertained.

I glance at my phone, where my mother's texts—full of instructions like Smile. Don't slouch. No sarcasm, Adhira!—pile up like unread spam emails. Oh, Maa, you sweet summer child.

Let me remind you, sarcasm is my primary language.

My brain is busy replaying my parents' conversation from two days ago—
When my parents first told me about this proposal, I laughed. Not just a polite chuckle—a full-on belly laugh. They casually informed me that I'd been selected, like a contestant on some matrimonial reality show, to marry a prince.

My mother pursed her lips in that way that meant she was disappointed in me, while my father muttered something about how I was 'too modern for my own good.'

They weren't wrong. Modern is an understatement. I've built my life in Mumbai, far away from family traditions and expectations. An independent woman who calls the shots. The idea of being whisked off to some ancient palace in a city that probably doesn't even have decent Wi-Fi?

It's a nightmare.

I glance at the driver again. "Do you think the prince has ever tried dating apps? Hypothetically, if I say yes to this royal charade, how am I supposed to communicate with him? Carrier pigeons? Smoke signals?"

The driver shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unsure whether to laugh or stay silent. I can't tell if it's my sarcasm or the absurdity of the situation that's making him uneasy. But I'm not done. Not by a long shot.

"I'm sure they've moved beyond pigeons, Miss," he mutters, eyes glued to the road. "Rajsharan may be old, but the royal family is not medieval."

"Could've fooled me," I mutter, looking out at the sprawling countryside.

Silence fills the car, but my mind is anything but quiet. What is this prince going to be like? Probably just like every other man I've met in my life—polished, arrogant, and fully expecting me to swoon at his feet because he's got a fancy title attached to his name.

Rishabh Singh Devgarh, the Prince of Rajsharan, son of Shikhar and Shailaja Devgarh. Naturally, I Googled him.

I found nothing. Nada. The man is a mystery - No social media presence, no scandals, no rumors. Either the man's a saint or a ghost. And honestly, I'm not sure which is worse.

How utterly boring.

But... what if he's not? What if behind that royal mask there's something deeper? Something real.

I push the thought away before it can take root. I don't have time for what ifs. I'm already here, stuck in this ridiculous engagement, and I've got enough on my plate without fantasizing about some prince with a secret side.

But what kind of man agrees to an arranged marriage in this day and age? My best guess: a pretentious, polished snob who probably refers to himself in the third person. 'Prince Rishabh thinks this conversation is beneath him.'

I glance at my reflection in the window, unable to resist a smirk. "Do I get to swipe left on the prince if he's a total bore? Or is that frowned upon in royal circles?"

I mutter to myself, imagining the look on his stoic face if I actually said that to him. Would he laugh? Or would he glare at me with that icy disapproval royals seem to perfect?

Before I can entertain the thought any further, my phone buzzes in my lap. Great. My mother again. For the fifteenth time today. I groan but answer, knowing she'll just keep calling until she gets some kind of reassurance that I'm not about to cause a royal scandal.

"Yes, Maa?"

"We're almost at the palace, Adhira," she says, her voice tight with anticipation. "Remember, this is not one of your Mumbai socialite parties. This is a serious matter."

"Oh, I know," I say, forcing a sweet tone. "I've already practiced curtsying in the rearview mirror.

"Adhira," she warns, her patience clearly thinning. "This isn't a joke. The Devgarh family is one of the last royal families in India. You should feel honored."

Last Royal Family?
They should be limited to history textbooks then.

"Right. Honored. Because nothing says 'modern woman' like being married off to a stranger in the name of family legacy."

Her sigh echoes down the line. "This is about more than just you. This is about our family, about history."

"History? Or a historical mistake?" I mutter, but she doesn't hear me because I hang up before she can say anything more.

What history exactly?
We are the common Rathores'.

I close my eyes and try to calm the growing tension in my chest, but it doesn't help. The palace of Devgarh looms in the distance now, its marble towers gleaming in the sunset. For a moment, I'm speechless. It's... breathtaking. And then reality kicks in.

The car crunches to a halt on the gravel drive, and I sit up straighter. My parents' car pulls up behind us, and an attendant—polite, efficient, and far too regal for my taste—opens my door. I step out, trying to shake off the nerves clinging to my skin.

The air is thick here. Heavy. Like it carries the weight of centuries. My stomach twists, and an unsettling chill creeps down my spine. There's something about this place... something that feels wrong.

It's like the very ground beneath my feet is urging me to run, to get back in the car and drive far away. But there's another feeling, too—one that tells me I'm supposed to be here.

That no matter what I want, this moment was inevitable.

Stop being ridiculous, Adhira.

I glance over at my parents. They seem perfectly at ease, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. My mother catches my eye, and I can see that familiar gleam in her expression—the one she always has when she thinks she's won.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she asks, sounding entirely too pleased with herself.

"Sure," I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "If you're into haunted houses."

My father laughs, but my mother just shoots me a look that says, behave.

I square my shoulders, trying to calm the gnawing sensation in my gut, and follow them toward the palace entrance.

"Sure, it's gorgeous, Mom. But let's not pretend I'm not being auctioned off here."

Of course, papa dearest has to find it amusing. "We've been over this, Adhira. It's not an auction. It's a marriage proposal."

"Which is basically the same thing," I roll my eyes. "Minus the gavel."

The moment I step inside, the sheer opulence hits me like a punch to the gut. Gilded ceilings, polished marble floors, Chandeliers that look like they've been stolen straight out of a Game of Thrones set. My heels click against the stone as we walk, and with every step, I feel more like an outsider.

It's probably nothing. Just nerves, right?

The portraits that line the walls—old, regal faces—seem to glare down at me as I pass, their eyes following my every move. It's unnerving, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. Not by the people in the room, but by something else. Something hidden in the very walls of this place.

I shudder. "Okay, this place is definitely haunted."

"Adhira," my mother hisses. "Please. Behave."

I flash her a grin, though it's more for my own amusement than hers. "Don't worry, I'm a delight."

I straighten my spine and plaster on a polite, slightly mischievous smile. Time to meet the royal pain in the ass. If he thinks I'm going to be some obedient, docile bride, he's in for a very rude awakening.

I glance ahead at my parents, their posture perfect, their every step composed and graceful, like this is the most natural thing in the world. They belong here—hell, they've always belonged to places like this. Fancy halls, glittering chandeliers, and social circles that spin with old money and even older traditions.

But me? I'm not convinced I do.

A group of attendants glides toward us, their movements almost too smooth, like they've been rehearsing for this moment their entire lives. One steps forward—an older man with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp eyes that miss nothing. He bows, just enough to show respect but not too much to be subservient.

"Mr. and Mrs. Rathore, Miss Rathore," he greets, his voice a low rumble that echoes in the grand hall. "This way, please."

I follow, feeling more like a guest star in someone else's life. This isn't my scene, not by a long shot. But here I am, playing the role, smiling politely like I haven't mentally mapped out three different escape routes.

As we walk, my mind races, cycling through all the possible formalities I'm about to endure. There will be bowing, no doubt. Stiff, awkward conversations about duty, family, and royal legacy. A silent dinner where I'll smile so much my face will hurt, all while plotting how quickly I can get the hell out of here.

We reach the end of the hallway, where two massive doors stand, carved with intricate patterns that look like they belong in a museum. Before I can mentally prepare myself, they swing open, and we step inside.

The room is... not what I expected. It's grand, yes—elegant rugs, golden lights casting a warm glow—but it's not cold. It's almost cozy. And then there's the laughter. Deep, rolling laughter that catches me completely off guard.

Seated on a luxurious couch, the King of Rajsharan is the one laughing, his eyes crinkled with amusement. He leans back, looking as relaxed as someone could possibly be, like he's sitting at home with an old friend, not about to meet the woman his son is supposedly going to marry. Beside him, the Queen holds a teacup, mid-conversation, her hand gesturing animatedly. They look like they're sharing some inside joke, not preparing to meet a potential daughter-in-law.

I blink. This isn't the stuffy, regal scene I was bracing for. Not at all. Where's the icy royal demeanor? The stiff formalities? This feels like walking into a family game night.

And then reality hits. This isn't game night. This is my life now.

And I'm thrown off my game completely.

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And so it begins - the fairytale of Adhira Rathore and Rishabh Singh Devgarh. But is it the fairytale we all imagine? Oh - you guys are in for a surprise!

Will Adhira embrace her role, or will she break free from the chains of tradition?

Stay tuned—the real story has just begun.

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