The days had begun to pass like whispers through the marbled corridors of the Rathore palace. What once felt like a cage was slowly turning into something else — something Aayat could not yet name.
It had started the night Anirudh Singh Rathore made his vow.
"Until you come to me, until you make me touch you yourself — I will not."
At first, she had laughed bitterly inside her heart. A vow from him? The same man who had trapped her into this marriage with lies and manipulation? She thought it was just another trick, another way to keep her off balance. She expected his hands to claim her in the darkness, his lips to press against hers when she least expected it.
But the night passed. And the next. And the next.
He never touched her.
Yes, he was still there — always there, too much there — watching her, shadowing her, filling every corner of the palace with his presence. But his vow held. And that terrified her in a new way, because Aayat did not know how to live with the silence of a man who was fir
It was in the small things that he revealed himself.
Every morning when she entered the breakfast hall, her cup of tea was already set — brewed exactly the way she liked, with just a hint of cardamom. She had never told anyone in the palace about her preference. But there it was, every day, steaming gently in the golden cup.
When she wandered into the palace library, she found books she had only once mentioned to Ishika in passing. They were placed neatly on the desk, as though waiting for her hands.
Once, while arranging flowers in a vase, she pricked her finger. It was barely a scratch. Yet Anirudh appeared out of nowhere, his eyes blazing, and called for the physician as though her very life was slipping away.
"If you bleed," he said, his voice low, "I bleed. If you hurt, I hurt."
The words should have frightened her. And they did — but in ways she had not expected.
Meals were the hardest.
She would sit at the long dining table, surrounded by the family, ministers, guests, the entire world it seemed. Yet every time she lifted her eyes, she found his fixed on her.
Not casual glances. Not fleeting looks. But burning, unblinking stares that made her chest tighten and her pulse trip over itself.
At first, she dropped her gaze, cheeks flaming. But slowly, she realized — he wasn't ashamed of it. He wanted her to know. He wanted her to feel caged not by walls, but by his eyes.
And strangely, she began to miss it when he wasn't
The monsoon arrived in full fury one night. The skies cracked open, lightning ripping across the heavens. Aayat slipped out onto the balcony, letting the rain whip against her skin, soaking her hair, her saree clinging to her like a second skin.
"You'll catch a cold," came his voice from behind.
She didn't turn. "I like the rain."
"I don't like anything that touches you without my permission," he replied.
Her breath caught. She should have felt anger, disgust, fear. But all she felt was her heart pounding against her ribs. She turned slowly, meeting his eyes in the lightning's glow.
And for the first time, she smiled. A small one, hesitant, but it was there.
His lips curved in something dark and satisfied — but he said nothing more.
That night, she lay awake for hours, her fingertips tingling where raindrops had kissed her, wondering why his words wouldn't leave her.
One month passed like this.
The entire palace gathered in the grand dining hall one evening. Ministers, guards, servants — everyone stood as Rajmata rose to speak.
Her voice carried the weight of centuries. "The time has come. Next month, Anirudh Singh Rathore will take his rightful place as the King."
Thunderous applause filled the room. Guests bowed their heads, ministers raised their glasses, and the family smiled in pride.
But Aayat heard none of it.
Her gaze was fixed on him.
Anirudh sat at the head of the table, his posture regal, his aura undeniable. But when his eyes flicked to hers across the table, for the briefest second, the mask of royalty slipped. She saw something raw, something unguarded.
And her heart broke open.
She loved him.
The realization came like a storm — fierce, uncontrollable, undeniable. She, who had once sworn never to forgive him, never to surrender to his darkness, had fallen into it willingly.
That night, as the palace celebrated, Aayat slipped away into the quiet of their chamber. She sat by the window, staring at the stars, her hands trembling.
"On the night of his coronation," she whispered to herself, "I will tell him. When the whole world bows to him, I will stand by his side. I will tell him I love him."
Her heart pounded at the thought. Fear still lived inside her, yes — fear of his intensity, of his obsession. But love had crept in between the cracks. Love for the man who restrained himself when he could have broken her. Love for the man who remembered the smallest details of her likes and dislikes. Love for the man whose eyes burned only for her
The next morning dawned with golden light spilling into the palace. Aayat awoke with determination pulsing in her chest. She had a secret now, a secret stronger than her fear.
But as she walked through the marbled halls, laughter and whispers reached her ears. A name carried by the servants.
"Veer Singh Rathore has returned."
She turned sharply. At the far end of the corridor, a tall figure stepped into the palace, his stride confident, his presence commanding. His smile carried a hint of arrogance, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
Anirudh's cousin.
Aayat's breath hitched. Something inside her twisted with unease, as though the fragile balance she had just found was about to shatter.