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Fate has a twisted sense of humor, especially when you least expect it.

Like when I'm standing in the royal hall, having just verbally dragged the prince of Rajsharan to filth—without realizing it's the prince.

My brain is racing, speeding in a hundred directions, and every thought feels like it's colliding headfirst. I want to run. Scream. Maybe find a hole to crawl into and die.

How did I end up here, making a total fool of myself on what is, without a doubt, the worst blind date in history?

Rishabh Singh Devgarh.

The smug stranger from the library. The man I just called a cocky, arrogant son of a—well, you know.

My mind is in freefall. I don't even know where I am anymore.

My parents don't seem to have heard my little meltdown, but Rishabh definitely has. And judging by the look on his stupidly perfect face—those ridiculous hazel eyes sparkling with barely concealed amusement—he's enjoying this.

Oh god, I've actually said, 'Oh, fuck me,' out loud. In front of a literal prince.

Fantastic. My face is on fire, and I'm scrambling for any sort of recovery, but my brain has completely shut down.

He's grinning.

No, not just grinning—smirking. That slow, infuriatingly smug curve of his lips that screams I win.

The universe is definitely laughing at me right now.

I can feel my parents' eyes on my back, silently begging me not to mess this up. Don't fuck it up, they said.

So what do I do? Exactly the opposite.

The Queen, with her signature poise, steps in to save the moment. "Adhira," she says warmly, her voice cutting through the awkward silence, "meet our son, the Prince of Rajsharan, Rishabh Singh Devgarh."

Perfect. Just perfect.

Rishabh steps forward, his every movement oozing confidence and charm. His smile—no, smirk—deepens as he extends a hand, princely and poised. "Pleasure to meet you... officially."

I stare at it like it's a trap. Because, honestly, it feels like one. Am I supposed to shake it? Bow? High-five him? Should I kiss his hand? Oh god, I probably should've curtsied earlier.

I should've YouTubed 'how to not embarrass yourself in front of royalty' before walking into this circus.

My body betrays me, though. I reach out, my movements stiff and robotic, and awkwardly shake his hand. "Likewise, Your Highness," I mumble, sounding like I'm speaking through a mouthful of marbles.

He doesn't let go. His smile softens into something far too smug for my liking, but there's a glint in his eyes that makes my stomach flip.

"Rishabh," he corrects smoothly, his voice warm and far too confident. "No need to be so formal, Adhira."

He's still holding my hand.

Rishabh. The Prince. Rishabh.
I'm supposed to call him by his first name now, apparently. Just casually, on a first-name basis with literal royalty. No big deal.

Oh, who am I kidding? This is a disaster.

By the end of the day, I'm not calling him anything. In fact, I'm not going to speak to him again. That's the plan. No more interactions with the Prince.

I force a tight-lipped smile, pulling my hand back as calmly as I can manage. "Right. Rishabh. Sure. Totally."

TOTALLY?! Who even am I right now? A surfer from Malibu?

His smirk deepens, and I realize this man is enjoying every second of my humiliation. "You seem nervous."

Nervous? Me? I'm never nervous.

Except apparently, that's a lie. Because right now, I'm sweating bullets, and my pulse is hammering in my ears. But I'm not about to admit it. Not to him. Not to the Prince.

I force a smile, but it's so tight it hurts. "Nervous? No, no. This is just... how I am around... people."

People. Excellent save, Adhira.
Really, top-notch work.

Mom steps in, ever the social butterfly, trying to salvage the situation. "Adhira's just... overwhelmed," she says, throwing a look at me that reads do-not-embarrass-us. "You know how it is with first impressions."

Rishabh chuckles, that stupidly perfect laugh, and looks at me like he's trying to read my mind. "Oh, I think we've moved past first impressions. I believe I've been thoroughly... evaluated."

I can feel my face burning. He's laughing at me. Of course he's laughing at me. It's all I can do not to throttle him on the spot.

"Tea, anyone? Let's take a moment to... relax." My mother's voice is warm but laced with an unspoken - Please, Adhira, just don't ruin this.

Yes, tea. Preferably with a side of cyanide.

We all move to the seating area, and guess who decides to sit next to me? Yep. Rishabh.

Of course, he has to be right there, leaning back like he's entirely in his element, with that infuriating half-smile, like he's completely at ease while I'm one misplaced word away from self-destruction.

"Comfortable?" he asks smoothly, that irritating smirk deepening. "Wouldn't want you to be too nervous, after all."

I bristle, whispering back, "I'm not nervous."

"Sure," he says, voice low, "not nervous at all. Just, you know, gripping your phone like you're about to shatter it."

How is this happening? I just met this guy, and already we're bickering like an old married couple. The worst part? I'm kind of... enjoying it? What is wrong with me?

I shoot him a glare that I hope is ice-cold, but I'm fairly certain it's somewhere between 'get away from me' and 'why are you so annoyingly perfect?' And he's still smiling. Still that same infuriating, cocky smile.

Great. Just great. Because not only did I just humiliate myself in front of the crown prince, but I'm also realizing that I am somehow, unfortunately, very stuck in this royal circus with him.

Queen Shailaja beams at us, completely oblivious to the chaotic mess of thoughts spiraling inside my head.

"I knew you two would hit it off," she laughs, and the rest join in. "We should give you both some time together. Now, Rishabh, do be a dear and escort Adhira to the lounge. Let's give these two some time to talk before we go through the formalities."

What now? Alone? With him? Is this some kind of royal hazing ritual?

My heart is pounding, my palms feel clammy, and I'm fairly certain I'm on the verge of hyperventilating. But Rishabh—of course—seems to notice because he gives me a look that's almost... reassuring. Almost.

My parents and his beam like they've just witnessed the beginning of a Bollywood romance. They clearly have no idea that this is not that. This is a horror-comedy, and I'm the unwilling protagonist.

Rishabh stands, extending his arm in a gesture that's equal parts gentlemanly and infuriatingly smug. "Shall we?"

I want to tell him to shove that arm where the sun doesn't shine, but my mother's hopeful gaze is boring into the back of my skull. So, I force a smile—a grimace, really—and place my hand on his arm. "Lead the way, Your Highness."

As we walk down the long corridor, I can feel the portraits of his ancestors staring down at me, silently judging every step I take. The royal ghosts are probably rolling in their graves at the sight of me. His ancestors are probably glaring down at him, thinking, 'This is who you've chosen? Really?'

His arm is warm beneath my hand, and I'm desperately trying to ignore how hyper-aware I am of every step I'm taking.

I sneak a glance at him. He's calm, composed, his stupidly perfect stride never faltering. Like this is just another day for him. Leading women into arranged marriages—no big deal. It's probably just a normal Tuesday for him.

Meanwhile, I'm silently screaming inside.

How is he so calm?
How is he acting like this is the most normal thing in the world?

I have a career, a life in Mumbai, friends—this arranged marriage thing was not in my five-year plan.

We step into the lounge, and of course, it's nothing short of a royal Pinterest board brought to life. Chandeliers dripping with crystals? Check. Velvet couches that scream 'don't touch me unless you're dripping in diamonds'? Check. Attendants standing like human mannequins along the walls? Naturally. If opulence had a physical form, it would be this room. My heart decides to audition for an Olympic gymnastics team, flip-flopping all over the place.

Finally, Rishabh releases my arm and gestures to one of the couches with all the grace of a man who owns everything in sight.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says, his tone far too casual for someone who just dragged me into this gilded interrogation chamber.

Comfortable? In this palace of intimidation? Yeah, sure, let me just pop my feet up and pretend I'm not having a minor existential crisis.

I hover for a second, frozen. It's just me and him now. Alone. Wonderful.

The universe must be having the time of its life watching this mess unfold.

Rishabh, on the other hand, sits down on one of the couches like he has all the time in the world, casually crossing one leg over the other. He's watching me with that same infuriatingly calm expression, waiting for me to make my move.

The couch farthest from him looks like the safest bet. But then I realize we'd have to yell across the room like we're in some bad rom-com. Fantastic. So, I settle for the couch next to him, keeping a respectable amount of space between us—enough to park a small car, at least.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches on, and it's thick, almost suffocating. But it's not entirely uncomfortable. It's just... there. Heavy.

Tea arrives, and I latch onto the cup like it's the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Masala chai might not solve all my problems, but at least it won't make them worse. I take a sip, willing it to calm my nerves. Spoiler alert: it doesn't.

Meanwhile, my rebellious inner voice—usually loud and full of sass—has gone radio silent. Traitor.

Rishabh glances at me, still as relaxed as ever. Of course, he's probably used to people being nervous around him. He's probably been dealing with awkward silences and arranged marriage meetings since birth. That just makes me more determined not to be one of those people. I'm not going to be another nervous wreck in his list of royal interviews.

"You're very quiet all of a sudden."

I glance at him, willing my brain to produce one of those cutting comebacks I'm usually so proud of. Nothing. Thanks, brain. So I settle for honesty.

"I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself in... such company," I reply coolly, lifting my glass of water to my lips.

Really? You didn't mind voicing your thoughts in the library.

His lips curve into a faint smile. "You should really work on that. It's going to be difficult to stay quiet when we'll be seeing more of each other."

Thank god, he did not bring that up.

Wait. More of each other? What does that even mean? My thoughts trip over themselves, and I can feel my cheeks heating up. Nope, not happening. I'm not signing up for this whole marriage thing. I came here for my family. I owe them that much.

I square my shoulders, trying to channel my usual sass. "If that day ever comes, I'll be sure to keep my distance."

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to mess with my already scrambled nerves. "Here's a tip: when meeting someone new, it's best not to start by accidentally insulting them."

I blink at him, then narrow my eyes. Oh, so we're doing this? Fine.

"I was just providing valuable feedback."

His chuckle is soft but rich, like he's genuinely entertained.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us buzzing with something I can't quite define. This is supposed to be formal, proper, boring. And yet, here we are, sparring like two people who actually enjoy this ridiculous back-and-forth.

The thought crosses my mind that this might not be a complete disaster after all.

But I push it aside, because no matter what, I'm not letting him get the upper hand. I'll play along for now. But he's not winning this one.

Not if I can help it.

Rishabh doesn't say anything for a while, giving me space to breathe.

"So," I say, leaning back slightly, "how often do you do this? Meet potential wives?"

His smirk widens, and he leans back too, mirroring my posture. "Oh, just meet one yesterday, actually."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Really? And what went wrong with that one? Did she not fit well into the royal gown?"

He tilts his head, feigning seriousness. "She was perfect. Too good to be true, really—except she didn't know how to curtsy."

Oh god. My stomach drops. I didn't curtsy either. Great job, Adhira.

Before I can spiral further, his laugh fills the room—warm, rich, and so annoyingly genuine that I almost forget to be mad. Almost.

I made the Prince laugh - will I be rewarded with the highest trophy or maybe a medal? - that works too.

"Relax, Adhira," he says, still chuckling. "You're the first girl I've met."

I try to keep his words from sinking too deep, but the way he says my name makes my heart skip a beat. It rolls off his tongue—soft yet firm—and I hate that it sends a shiver down my spine.

Already, Adhira?
I mentally slap myself. Pull it together, woman.

"Certainly not the last," I say, crossing my arms in an attempt to sound indifferent, like this whole situation doesn't make me want to crawl under the nearest rock.

He tilts his head, his smirk never wavering. "That depends on your decision."

I arch an eyebrow, not missing a beat. "What about your decision? You're the Prince, right? Nothing goes above your say."

He shrugs, as if we're discussing the weather. "I'm a prince. Ironically, I don't have much choice."

I snort, unable to help myself. "Right. Like God saying he doesn't control the universe," Then, grinning, I lean forward slightly. "You know, you could always try dating apps. I'm sure girls would love to swipe right on a real-life prince."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Good thought. Though I'm not sure the palace is ready for Tinder royalty."

"Oh, come on," I press. "Swipe right for tiaras. Swipe left for exile. It practically markets itself."

His laughter deepens, and it's maddening how much I want to laugh with him. But no, I need to keep my wits about me. This is a game now, and I'm not about to lose.

"And it might be more efficient than this whole arranged marriage parade."

He studies me for a moment, his smile softening into something quieter, almost thoughtful. "You might be right. But there's something to be said about traditions, even outdated ones."

"Traditions are fine," I say, waving my hand vaguely, "but a bio would help. What are you even supposed to talk about with a stranger?"

His gaze sharpens, and I catch that flicker of mischief again—the kind that makes me want to punch him and stare at him all at once. Leaning in just enough to invade my personal space, he says, "A stranger?" His lips curve into that signature teasing smirk. "I know a bit about you, Miss Rathore."

I raise an eyebrow. Oh, this should be good. "Do you now? Please, enlighten me."

He leans back in his chair like he's about to give a TED Talk on The Complex Layers of Adhira Rathore.

"You're fiercely independent," he begins, ticking off imaginary bullet points on his fingers. "You've built a life in Mumbai you're proud of—a career that means more to you than most people realize. You hate pomp and ceremony, but you still value family, which is why you're here now, despite being visibly uncomfortable."

My mouth falls open slightly before I snap it shut. Okay, not bad. But he's not getting any brownie points for this dime-store psychoanalysis. I cross my arms, trying to regain some control. "Not bad. Do you do this homework for all your potential brides?"

His chuckle is light, but there's a hint of something more in his gaze. "Only the ones I'm interested in."

And there it is. The statement that makes my heart do some kind of illegal gymnastics in my chest. Get it together, Adhira.

"And here I thought I was the one evaluating you," I shoot back, narrowing my eyes.

Rishabh grins, and it's almost maddening how relaxed he looks. "Trust me, Adhira, it goes both ways."

I swallow hard, trying to come up with something clever to say, but my mind is doing cartwheels. I was so sure I'd shut this whole thing down the second I met him. I mean, this isn't my world. It's not even my continent, metaphorically speaking. And yet, here I am, staring at this smug prince and realizing... it's complicated.

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around how I went from Mumbai to... this." I gesture vaguely around the opulent room. "It's a lot to process."

He leans back, crossing his arms in a way that mirrors mine, though he looks far more at ease. "You'll get used to it."

"Will I?" I blurt, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I glance at him, my voice dropping into something more serious. "What if I don't want to get used to it? What about my life in Mumbai? My career?"

For a second, I expect him to scoff or dismiss me. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, looking at me like I'm the one missing something obvious. "You can keep your career. No one's going to stop you from working."

I blink, caught completely off guard. "Really? You'd be okay with that?"

Okay, now I'm suspicious. Isn't he supposed to be all 'A woman's place is in the palace?' What's the catch?

He looks at me like I've missed something obvious. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be? You're good at what you do." Then, with a sly grin, he adds, "Besides, if you ever needed a more stable office, we've got a whole palace. Plenty of desk space."

I can't help it—I snort. "Wow, you're really selling this whole royal life thing, huh?"

"Just doing my part," he says, grinning like he's the CEO of a very exclusive pyramid scheme. "If you want, you could even join the family business. We could use someone with your skills."

Great. Now he's throwing metaphors at you. Next thing you know, he'll be quoting Shakespeare.

I narrow my eyes, leaning in just slightly. "If you needed a marketer, Rishabh, you could've just hired me. No need for this whole marriage proposal."

He laughs—a rich, deep sound that makes my stomach flip, and not in a way I'm thrilled about.

"True," he admits, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But where's the fun in that? Besides, I didn't propose this arrangement. Our parents have been orchestrating this little... chess game for years."

Chess game. Yeah, that feels about right.

I bite my lip, feeling the weight of everything press down on me. My life in Mumbai, my career, my independence—it all feels so far away. And now, I'm caught in this royal web, unsure of what to do. There's chemistry between us, sure, but is that enough to gamble my whole life on?

I glance at him, studying his face. Why did he agree to this? I'm just some girl from Mumbai, living a normal life. What made him say yes to me?

"Funny," I say, my voice dry as a desert. "I don't recall signing up to be anyone's pawn."

His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, the teasing melts away, replaced by something darker, more intense. "Then don't be a pawn," he says softly. "Be the Princess. It's your move, Adhira."

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The ball is in Adhira's court now.
What will she choose?
Her freedom and her life in Mumbai / be a Princess and restrict her life in Rajsharan?

But will she be restricted? Or will Rishabh choose to support her?

Stay tuned.
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