TARA'S POV
The clinking of cutlery and hushed chatter filled the cozy booth of our favorite rooftop restaurant. Fairy lights shimmered above, casting a soft glow over the marble table between us. But the air tonight wasn’t romantic — it was thick with worry.
Tejas stirred his coffee absentmindedly. He hadn’t taken a sip in the last fifteen minutes.
“We can’t keep waiting, Tara,” he said, voice low, serious. “It’s been four years. I want a life with you… not just dates between your family functions and my business trips.”
I looked at him — the man who’d seen me through everything: the good, the bad, and the royal. His eyes still held the same warmth they did when we met in college. He wasn’t just a part of my life. He was my life.
“I know,” I whispered. “But you know my family. This isn’t about money or ego — it’s about bloodlines. Legacy. My Dadu-sa says a Shekhawat marries only into royalty.”
Tejas gave a dry laugh. “And I’m what? A peasant in a suit?”
I reached across the table and held his hand. “No. You’re everything I want. And I don’t care if your last name doesn’t come with a crest.”
He looked away, jaw clenched. “But they do.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of our reality sinking in. The restaurant’s background music played a hauntingly soft tune — as if it, too, understood the ache between us.
“You know they won’t just say no,” I said. “They’ll try to ruin your image, find faults, twist your past. They’ll say I betrayed tradition. That I disrespected our ancestors.”
“And what will you say?” he asked.
I met his eyes. “That I chose love over a last name.”
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AUTHOR’S POV
The Shekhawat family wasn’t just rich — they were regal. Their lineage traced back to pre-independence India, when thrones still mattered and honor was sharper than any sword.
Tara’s grandfather, Suryadev Singh Shekhawat, was a man of discipline and quiet power. He wasn’t cruel — just impossibly bound by tradition. For him, marriage wasn’t a union of hearts. It was a union of empires.
Tara, his youngest granddaughter, was the spark of the family — graceful but rebellious, kind but firm. And in her heart bloomed a love he could never understand.
Tejas kapoor came from wealth, sure. His family ran international businesses, had villas in Europe, and drove cars worth more than most people’s houses. But he didn’t have royal blood. His family name wasn’t written in gold-leaf manuscripts. For the Shekhawats, that was unacceptable.
TEJAS’S POV
She was quiet on the ride back. I could tell her mind was spinning.
We’d fought battles before — sneaking around royal functions, faking ‘just friends’ smiles in public, and ignoring questions from curious aunts.
But this battle felt different.
I parked outside her haveli — the white marble walls glowing under moonlight like something from another era. Her world looked like a fairy tale. Mine felt like a footnote.
“I’ll talk to them,” she said before getting out. “Alone. This weekend.”
My heart sank. “Are you sure?”
She gave me that crooked smile that always made me weak. “I’m sure of you. That’s enough.”
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