The sun glinted off the towering domes of Rathore Palace, bathing its centuries-old sandstone in an illusion of warmth. But as Aahana stepped through its grand archway, clutching the handle of her modest suitcase, all she felt was a rising ache in her chest.
This wasn't a homecoming. It was a sentence.
One year. That was what her grandmother's will demanded. One year in the royal palace of the man who had never known she existed. One year living among stepbrothers who didn't acknowledge her, beside a husband who barely looked at her, and beneath the roof of a family that never asked for her.
She should have been used to this kind of welcome. Or the lack of it.
She was twelve when her mother, Meenal, died of pneumonia in the monsoon rains. Her only family after that was her mama-her mother's elder brother-who took her in not out of love, but for the monthly allowance sent by her grandmother, the Rajmata.
From the moment she entered that house, she was treated like a debt. She was given the smallest room, made to clean the rest, taught to stay quiet during dinner. Her cousins were dressed in new clothes; she wore hand-me-downs. They went to birthday parties; she cooked for them. When relatives came over, she became the maid.
"She's lucky we took her in." That was what her aunt whispered to guests. "She eats because of us."
So, Aahana learned early that love was conditional. Affection was earned-never freely given. She studied hard. Scored perfectly. Got into Delhi University. Earned scholarships. Fought for every inch of dignity. And when she finally left that house, she promised herself one thing:
She would never be unwanted again.
She dreamed of marrying someone who saw her-not her burdens, not her lineage, not her silence. Just her.
But fate had its own sense of humor.
One night. One mistake. One pregnancy. And a marriage of convenience to Dr. Arjun Mehra, India's youngest and most celebrated neurologist.
They married quietly-no celebration, no garlands, no promises of love. Arjun was cold, formal, and emotionally distant. He fulfilled every duty a husband was expected to-but with the same mechanical care he offered his patients.
They lived in his spacious, sterile apartment in Mumbai. The walls were full of medical journals, not memories. His parents were courteous but clipped, concerned more about hospital rankings than her wellbeing. His younger sister, Avni, openly disliked her.
No one mistreated her. No one hit her. But no one reached for her either.
So she did what she always did-she endured.
Until her grandmother died.
The Rajmata. The only person who had ever tried to protect her, even from afar.
Her will revealed the truth of Aahana's bloodline-her birth as the illegitimate daughter of King Rajveer Singh Rathore, born of a love he lost before his arranged marriage. A truth even he hadn't known.
And now, to transfer her massive estate and business shares to her son, the Rajmata had set one condition: Aahana and her husband must live in the palace for a year. Legally. Physically. Publicly.
So here she was. Three months pregnant. Twenty-seven. Carrying a child for a man who didn't love her. And standing in front of the man who had never known he had a daughter.
The King stood tall in the entrance, regal even in silence. He looked at her like he wasn't sure if she was real-or just a ghost from a love he had buried long ago.
"Aahana," he said, voice gravelled with age.
She bowed slightly. "Your Majesty."
He winced at the formality. But what else could she call him?
Behind him, in the wide marble corridor, stood four young men-each perfectly composed in his own way.
Veer, the eldest of the King's sons, had a sharpness in his gaze that could slice through steel. His arms were crossed, his face unreadable. He was trained to lead empires, not welcome strangers.
Kunal, the second, looked like a man who analyzed everything before he spoke. A brilliant young lawyer, holding his posture like he held arguments-in controlled precision.
And then, the twins-Aarav and Aayan. Barely twenty. One had a phone in hand, the other earbuds. Their curiosity was visible, but restrained.
Not one of them stepped forward.
Arjun arrived late, as usual. His eyes flickered to her, then to the King, then away. No hand reached for hers. No smile.
She stood there-stranger, daughter, wife, mother-to-be-and realized something.
She didn't want anything anymore.
Not acceptance. Not love. Not family. Not warmth. She had spent her entire life longing for those things, and every time, the door had stayed shut. People didn't love her-they tolerated her. Or used her. Or forgot her.
But not this child.
Her hands drifted protectively to her belly. This child would have all the love she never had. Every heartbeat, every breath she took from now on-was for the tiny life growing inside her.
They didn't wan
t her? Fine.
She would want nothing in return.
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