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Here's the thing about life: just when you think you've got it all figured out, it sucker-punches you with a royal curveball.

Case in point: me, Adhira, slumped on my couch in my oldest t-shirt, legs tangled beneath me, staring at my laptop like it's the Oracle of Delphi. The cursor blinks at me, a smug little reminder of how I've accomplished absolutely nothing in the last three hours except stress-eating an alarming amount of chips.

Productivity? Never heard of it.

And why am I like this, you ask? Oh, just the minor detail that my life imploded after a royal engagement proposal. No big deal. Except now I'm haunted by memories of His Smugness—Prince Rishabh Singh Devgarh—and the way he looked at me when he said, 'It's your move, Adhira.' Oh, the audacity.

Cue mental shutdown. Again.

Before I can spiral any further, there's a loud knock at the door. And before I can even think of telling whoever it is to go away - Mihir, my charming pain of a brother, struts in, looking way too pleased with himself. He's carrying a paper bag that smells like fried heaven, but I know better than to let my guard down.

Mihir plus food equals unsolicited advice with a side of chaos.

"I let myself in," he announces casually, tossing the bag onto the coffee table like he's some kind of conquering hero.

I shoot him a look. "I gave you the keys for emergencies, Mihir."

"This is an emergency," he replies, making a beeline for the kitchen. "You've gone MIA since your royal field trip. You met a prince, disappeared, and now you're avoiding me. What's up, Princess?"

Ah, there it is. The nickname. Princess. If I had a rupee for every time he has called me that since I came back, I'd be rich enough to build a second palace in Rajsharan.

"Don't call me that," I grumble, snatching a vada pav from the bag. "And for the record, I've been busy."

"Busy doing what? Staring at a blank screen and questioning every life choice you've ever made?"

"Wow, Dr. Freud," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "You really missed your calling as a therapist."

He leans against the counter with a self-satisfied grin. "I'm just saying, you met an actual prince and you're not freaking out? What gives? Are you moving to Rajsharan? Do I need to start calling you Her Royal Highness?"

"God, Mihir, no," I mutter, slumping back onto the couch. "I'm not—this isn't—I don't know."

There it is. The three words I never thought I'd say about my life: I don't know.

The truth I've been avoiding. Because I always know what I want. I've never been the kind of person who second-guesses herself. But now? Now, everything feels like it's upside down.

Mihir raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying my misery. "Oh, so you don't know. That's new. Usually, you have everything planned out to the second. What's different this time?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "It's just... not what I expected. Marriage was never part of the plan. But now..." My voice trails off as my thoughts race ahead of me.

But now there's him. And he's not just a prince with a title and a perfect jawline. There's something about Rishabh that I can't quite shake. Maybe it's the way he doesn't act like a prince—or maybe it's the fact that he drives me insane, he seems so... unaffected by everything. Like he's in control of his world, and I'm just stumbling through mine.

"But?" Mihir smirks like the annoying know-it-all he is. "Let me guess. The prince is hot."

I groan, covering my face with my hands. "Seriously? That's not the point."

His smirk widens. "But is he hot? Like, on a scale from 1 to I'm moving to Rajsharan tomorrow, where are we?"

I let out a snort-laugh, despite myself. "Stop it."

"But you didn't deny it," he points out, waggling his eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my head. "Mihir, focus. This isn't about his looks."

"Uh-huh. Sure," he says, sipping his coffee like he's judging me on a panel show.

"Can you be serious for two seconds?" I snap, but I can't stop the corners of my mouth from twitching.

"I am serious. This is life-changing stuff, Dhira. If the guy's a ten, you suck it up and learn to curtsy," he says, shrugging.

Seriously?
Now I say yes - because the Prince is hot? Should I then say to Lucifer - because he is hot?
Well - Yes, I would - nevermind!

I hurl a crumpled napkin at his head, which he dodges with the reflexes of someone who's been annoying me for 23 years.

Why does he have to make everything into a joke?

"It's not that simple," I sigh, sinking back into the chair. "He's... different."

Mihir wiggles his eyebrows, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Different, huh? So, here's an idea. Bring him to Mumbai. Let him see your chaos up close. Think of it as a trial by fire. If he survives your life here, he survives you."

He hands me a mug of coffee, and I breathe in the smell of freshly brewed perfection. If there's one thing he is good at, it's making coffee.

Why does my brother have to be good at everything, especially when I'm a mess?

I smack his arm playfully. "Thanks for making me sound like a death sentence."

"Hey, you're not a death sentence," he says with a grin, biting into his own vada pav. "You're just... high maintenance."

I scoff, pretending to be offended. "I'm not high maintenance."

"Yes, you are," he replies without missing a beat. "And that's fine. You have high standards. You don't settle. There's nothing wrong with that."

I smile a little, feeling some of the tension slip away. "I guess. But what if I'm in over my head? It's not just marrying him—it's marrying into that life. The palace, the expectations... I don't know if I can handle it."

Mihir's expression softens, and for a second, he's serious. "Adhira, you've been dealing with a royal pain in your life since day one—me. If you can survive this," he gestures at himself, "you can survive anything."

I snort, shaking my head at his ridiculous attempt to be sentimental. "If you're the standard, I should've been queen ages ago."

He grins, pulling me into a one-armed hug. "Well, start practicing, Your Majesty. Whether you marry him or not, you'll always be royalty in this family. And if you do decide to go full Maharani, remember—I get first dibs on the royal carriage."

I laugh despite myself, leaning into his ridiculous one-armed hug. "You're an idiot."

"An idiot who brought you food," he says, holding up a second vada pav. "You're welcome."

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I jolt awake, heart racing, clutching a pillow to my chest like it's a lifeline. My breath comes out in shaky gasps as I sit up on the couch, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. My forehead is damp with sweat, and I can still feel the echoes of it—the images slipping through my mind like sand.

Rishabh was in it.

And it wasn't one of those daydream fantasies I'd never admit to having. No, this was something darker. His face had been solemn, his eyes filled with something like pain, and I remember screaming his name, desperately trying to reach him. But the rest? It's fading fast. Just flashes now, but enough to leave me unsettled.

I've never been one for nightmares. Growing up, sleep had always been easy—peaceful, even. But this? This was different. This felt real.

I sit up straighter, trying to shake the unease from my mind. It was just a dream, I tell myself, but the weight of it lingers.

My phone vibrates on the table, jerking me back to the mess I call reality. Half-asleep and half-hoping it's a spam call, I fumble to unlock it, only to see a flood of messages from Mihir lighting up the screen.

What? My brain short-circuits. I blink at the screen, rereading the last message as if it might morph into something less ominous. My stomach flips. He? Who's he?

Mihir couldn't mean... Rishabh?
No. Absolutely not. The universe couldn't possibly hate me this much.

Maybe 'He is coming to Mumbai' was a typo. Maybe Mihir meant 'pizza is coming to Mumbai.' Pizza makes sense. Pizza is safe. Rishabh Singh Devgarh is not.

I'm about to text him back when another message pops up.

Oh, great. Very reassuring. Because if Mihir is losing his chill, I'm pretty much doomed. I call him, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop the phone. It barely rings before his overly chipper voice comes through.

"Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Mihir!" I snap, already pacing. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He lets out a sigh, the kind that's designed to infuriate. "Prince Charming is in Mumbai. I overheard Dad talking about it. Apparently, he's got 'official business' in the city, but—" and here his tone shifts into full dramatic mode, "—he specifically said he wanted to see you. Something about not leaving things unfinished."

Unfinished?
I'm sorry, what?
Did I leave something behind in Rajsharan? My dignity, maybe?

"What does that even mean?" I demand, already panicking.

"As if I know - the gossip between you two," he says, way too nonchalant for my liking. "But he's coming. So... what are you going to do about it?"

Do about it? As if I have some grand, foolproof plan ready to deploy for situations like this.

"Ah, and yes—Adhira?" Mihir's voice carries this unmistakable hint of mischief, like he's holding back the best—or worst—news for last.

"Hmm?" I respond absentmindedly, already pacing around the room with the phone pressed to my ear, trying to work through this constant loop of confusion in my head.

"He's already on the way to your apartment."

I freeze, my eyes going wide.

"What? How? Why?" My voice shoots up an octave as I stumble up from the couch, heart pounding like it's running a marathon.

"Our parents have no etiquette," I grumble, grabbing a hair tie from the coffee table and hastily pulling my hair back into a messy ponytail. "What father allows a guy—no, a prince - to just show up at his daughter's apartment alone?" I sigh, practically feeling the tension buzz in my veins. "I haven't even prepared—what am I supposed to say? 'Hey, welcome to my disaster of a life and my equally disastrous living room'?"

On the other end, Mihir laughs, clearly enjoying my panic. "Oh, come on, Adhira Rathore." He says my full name like he's scolding me, which only makes me want to throw a cushion at him, even if he's miles away. "Since when do you let things like this shake you? It's just a visit. Relax. Maybe offer him a cup of tea or... throw in a bow or a curtsy if you're feeling extra formal."

"You're not helping," I snap back, already heading to the kitchen to make sure there isn't a stack of dirty dishes waiting to betray my slobbish tendencies. "How much time do I have? Did they give you any details?"

"Well, considering he was leaving from a hotel not too far from your place," he says, dragging out his words as if he's loving every second of this, "I'd say you've got about—" he pauses, and I can practically hear his smirk, "—ten minutes. Give or take."

"Ten minutes?" I echo, voice pitching into a higher, panicked tone. "I—no, no, this is ridiculous."

I'm officially in crisis mode now, frantically shoving books, papers, and possibly a snack wrapper into the nearest drawer. I trip over my own shoes, kick them across the room, and fling a throw pillow onto the couch like it's the finishing touch on an architectural masterpiece.

"Calm down, Dhira," Mihir says, and this time he sounds almost, almost reassuring. "It's not a royal inspection. Just a guy coming to see a girl. Maybe even to finish a conversation that started back in Rajsharan."

"Oh, because that's reassuring," I mutter, rolling my eyes. Why did I even call him?

What am I supposed to say when Rishabh walks in?

"You know," I say to Mihir as I frantically straighten the blanket on the couch, "you really have a talent for making things sound both reassuring and vaguely ominous at the same time."

He laughs, but I'm not even listening anymore.

The intercom buzzes, and my heart lurches.

Oh god, he's here. He's really here.

"Good luck, Rani Sahiba," Mihir says, his voice turning playful. "Don't forget to curtsey."

"Fuck off, Mihir," I snap, ending the call and staring at the door like it's a portal to doom.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I force myself to walk over to the intercom. "Yes?"

"Ma'am, there's a gentleman here to see you," the security guard says, sounding way too amused. Of course he's amused. This never happens.

Oh no, he's too punctual. Royals are supposed to be fashionably late! Like he was the day we met.

I throw the sock into the laundry pile and compose myself, which, honestly, is just me whispering don't die, don't die under my breath.

"Send him up," I manage, my voice miraculously steady.

As I wait, I find myself brushing off imaginary lint from my clothes, smoothing a hand over my hair for the third—no, maybe fourth—time. I straighten, trying to channel every word Mihir threw at me just an hour ago: You're Adhira. You're not easily swayed. He said it with that trademark confidence, as if my heart hadn't been fluttering for days now, filled with a confusion I can't quite shake.

Why do I feel as if everything hinges on this meeting? Am I really ready for this? To face whatever Rishabh has come here to say? Or worse—whatever he hasn't said yet?

I can handle this. Probably. Maybe. Okay, not really.

Then the knock comes. A sharp, authoritative knock that says, I'm Rishabh Singh Devgarh, and I own the world—and possibly your sanity.

I stare at the door, willing it to disappear. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, he'll think I'm not home. Or dead. Dead is good too.

But no, my traitorous hand reaches for the doorknob. I yank it open, fully expecting disaster.

And there he is -
Rishabh Singh Devgarh.

Every bit as infuriatingly composed as I remember, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his hair tousled just enough to make him look effortlessly regal. He's taller than I remember, and his presence... it's overwhelming. Those dark, unreadable eyes meet mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

Meanwhile, I'm standing here in a wrinkled t-shirt that says Namaste in Bed, my hair doing its best impression of a bird's nest. Fabulous.

Kill me now.

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What will happen next?
I am excited - are you?
What will Rishabh say?
Any idea?

Alsoooo - we get to meet Mihir Rathore. Adhira's younger brother!