CHAPTER 4
The Stranger Who Stole My Breath
VIHAAN
The sound of clinking glasses echoes faintly across the empty dining hall.
My fingers tap idly against the polished teak table, the rhythm syncing with the muffled sound of the central AC.
The Sisodiyas’ new hotel in Bikaner is… grand, in that heavy, old-money sort of way.
Gold arches. Velvet chairs. Chandeliers dripping crystals like frozen rain.
It’s meant to impress, to whisper legacy in every glimmer.
But right now, the place feels like a mausoleum.
Except for the staff hovering in the background—silent, efficient, pretending they aren’t listening—there’s no one here. Not a single guest. The entire dining floor is mine, cordoned off for this meeting.
I lean back, stretching slightly, and glance at Karan, my assistant, perched at another table near the far wall. He’s scrolling through his phone, probably playing some game or reading political updates. His face is neutral, but I know he’s just as restless as I am.
I check my watch. Fifteen minutes past the scheduled time.
Of course. Royal families rarely run on clocks; they run on ego.
I glance at my phone, open the chat with Meher bhabhi sa.
Meher Bhabhi sa: Try to make a good impression today, hmm?
Me: Of course.
Meher Bhabhi sa: Unlike your brother, who told me “We need to marry” like it was a business deal.
I chuckle, typing back quickly:
Me: Let me get back to you. I’m gonna show this to bhai sa.
A smile tugs at my lips. Bhabhi-sa has become a good friend; I am very much in awe of her at how quickly she has settled into this royal life.
I’m about to type something else when I hear the faint sound of anklets.
My head jerks up. The door at the far end opens, and for a second, the world just… stills.
A woman steps in, framed by sunlight streaming through the archway.
Pink lehenga. Soft, flowing like a whisper.
Her hair is loose, tumbling down her back in waves that glint like dark honey under the chandelier.
She’s adjusting her glasses with delicate fingers, her head bent as she walks toward me, each anklet chime like a soft beat against my ribs.
I stare. My breath catches without my permission.
God.
She’s breathtaking. Not in the loud, obvious way beauty sometimes is. Not the kind that screams for attention in a crowded room. No—she’s the kind that feels… sacred. Like something you’re supposed to look at and whisper a prayer for.
But then I frown.
Something’s wrong.
This isn’t Rajkumari Koyal. I’ve seen her pictures in every dossier, every press clipping. Koyal Sisodiya is tall, statuesque, her presence commanding like a queen in waiting. This girl—this woman—is different. Softer. Almost… fragile.
I stand slowly, my chair scraping against the floor. My voice comes out softer than I expect.
“Where’s Rajkumari Koyal? I’ve been waiting for her.”
The words freeze her mid-step. Her head snaps up, and our eyes meet for the first time.
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
Have you ever looked at someone and thought, God spent a little extra time on this one? Like they were carved out of something divine, something untouched by all the noise in the world? That’s what it feels like. Standing here, staring at her wide, startled eyes behind those glasses.
“I—” She stammers, panic flickering across her face. “Um… I’m Poorvi. Maharaj Digvijay’s younger sister. I… I was told to meet you. Are you Kunwar Vihaan?”
Her voice trembles like it’s carrying the weight of something bigger than both of us.
I nod slowly, my eyebrows knitting together. The only younger sister I know of is Rajkumari Koyal. So… who the hell is she?
“Please, sit,” I say, gesturing toward the chair opposite mine. “Give me a moment.”
As she lowers herself hesitantly, I walk over to Karan, my jaw tight.
“Find out,” I mutter, low enough for only him to hear. “Is there any Poorvi Sisodiya we know of? And is she actually related to Digvijay?”
He nods sharply. “On it.”
“Make it quick. Message me.”
I turn back, schooling my expression into something softer before walking to the table. She’s sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on them like they hold all the answers. She looks… scared.
I sit down, leaning forward slightly. “Hey,” I say gently. “It’s okay.”
Her eyes lift to mine, wide and uncertain. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
I frown. Sorry? For what?
Before I can ask, my phone vibrates. A message from Karan.
Confirmed. She was Late Maharaj Karanveer’s illegitimate child.
It clicks.
No wonder I’ve never seen her at events. No wonder no one talks about her. She’s a ghost in her own palace, a secret swept under layers of silk and silence.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling softly. So Digvijay played us. When he said “Rajkumari,” we all assumed it was Koyal. Who would’ve thought…
I chuckle under my breath, shaking my head slightly.
And that’s when she blurts out, her voice cracking like glass, “I’m an illegitimate child.”
The words hang between us like smoke. She finally looks at me, her eyes shimmering with something that twists at my chest. Embarrassment. Fear. A desperate need to make me understand.
“You must not marry me,” she says, her voice trembling, breaking. “Wherever I go, I only bring gossip and whispers. You wouldn’t want that, Kunwar-sa.”
I stare at her, stunned—not because of what she said, but because she believes it so deeply.
“Do you want this marriage?” I ask softly.
Her lips part, her eyes flickering with something like shock. “My opinion does not matter,” she whispers.
And just like that, everything makes sense. She wasn’t asked. She was ordered.
I lean in, my voice low, steady. “Then I’m giving you a choice. I’ll only say what you want.”
Her brows knit together. “Why?” The word is barely a breath. “Why give me a choice?”
she asks, almost to herself. “You should do what’s beneficial for you, right?”
Her eyes glisten, and for a second, I see it—the weight she carries, the way the world has told her over and over that she’s nothing more than a mistake.
God, she looks so lost. Like no one’s ever told her she matters.
“You’re a living being, Rajkumari—”
“Poorvi,” she interrupts softly. “I’m just… Poorvi.”
I nod. “Poorvi, then.” Her name feels strange and sweet on my tongue. “Your life matters more than some political benefit. Understand that.”
She stares at me for a beat, then whispers, “I’m just twenty-one.
And like many girls in this country,” she continues, “I want to study further. I’ve done my bachelor’s in psychology.
I… I want to become a psychologist.” She lets out a bitter little laugh.
“Not that I see that happening anytime soon. Unless I run away. Or save up enough to take classes someday.”
Her eyes go distant, and she speaks like she’s forgotten I’m here.
“I’ve always wanted to help people,” she murmurs. “Not just superficially, but with things no one sees… or things they’re afraid to see in themselves. I want to help people discover themselves. Love themselves.”
“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. My voice is softer than I expect. “Why do you want to help others?”
Her eyes flicker to mine, startled. Then she gasps, covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t mean to—please don’t tell Maharaj about this. Please. I’m sorry.”
She’s panicking, her breaths shallow.
“Hey.” I reach across the table and take her hand gently. She freezes, her skin cool against my palm. “It’s okay. This is supposed to be a meeting between a potential husband and wife, right? There’s no room for anyone else here.”
Her eyes widen. For the first time, something soft flickers there.
“So you want to study more?” I ask quietly.
She nods, hesitant.
“That’s okay. You don’t need to ask me for your basic rights, Poorvi. Education is a basic right.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “It’s easy to say.”
I squeeze her hand before I realize I’m still holding it. “Maybe I don’t know what happens in your family, but in ours, you don’t need permission unless you’re going against the crown.”
She hums, her lips pressing into a line.
“Do you need time?” I ask.
Her eyes snap to mine. “What’s your decision?”
I chuckle. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Why?” She pouts, and something about it almost makes me laugh out loud.
“Because I know my decision will affect yours,” I say simply.
Her mouth falls open, stunned. I grin, shrugging. “I may not know a thing about psychology, but I’ve grown up breathing politics. It’s easy to read people now.” Besides she’s very easy to read apparently, her eyes really are the window to her soul.
She hums again, then whispers, “Can I be honest with you?”
I smile. “That’s why we’re here, Poorvi.”
She bites her lip, hesitating, then says quietly, “I think I’ll never get a better match than you.”
My brows shoot up, a smile tugging at my lips. “I see. You’re going with logic.”
Color floods her cheeks, and she looks away, smiling shyly. “So… I’ll be saying yes.”
I nod slowly. “And you?” she asks, her voice so small it almost disappears.
I rise, letting her hand slip gently from mine. “I could never deny you, Rajkumari Poorvi.” I smile down at her, meaning every word. “I promise I’ll do my best to be a good life partner to you.”
She nods, a faint smile curving her lips—but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
And I know why.
She may be agreeing with her words, but her heart? It’s still locked in a cage Digvijay built.
So in this moment, one thing becomes clear to me: This isn’t about politics anymore. Not for me.
It’s about her.
Because the girl sitting across from me—who thinks of herself as a shadow, who dreams of healing others while carrying wounds no one sees—she deserves someone to fight for her.
And maybe… just maybe… that someone is me.