In the vibrant city of Jaipur, a secret deal was struck between two worlds. Abhimaan Deep Shekhawat, the enigmatic King of Rajasthan, controlled the political and criminal underworld with an iron fist. His power was unmatched, his influence unparall...
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The silence of the empty room was almost soothing after the chaos of the night before. As I stirred awake, the first thing I noticed was the absence of his presence. He was gone, and the quiet that filled the room was like a balm to my unsettled nerves. There was a part of me that was grateful for the solitude, a moment to gather myself without the weight of his imposing demeanor.
I pushed the thoughts aside as I rose from the bed, heading to the bathroom to freshen up. The warm water from the shower cascaded over me, washing away the lingering tension. When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I felt a sense of calm. My hair hung damp around my shoulders, and my skin glowed from the heat of the bath. It was a small comfort, but I clung to it.
As I entered the walk-in closet, I couldn’t help but marvel at its grandeur. Rows of designer clothes lined the walls, shelves filled with expensive shoes, and drawers gleamed with jewelry that sparkled under the soft lights. It was a world of luxury, one that should have thrilled any woman, yet I felt strangely detached from it. This wasn’t my world .
My eyes drifted over the opulent outfits, but it was the simple red saree that caught my attention. Its understated elegance, with minimal embroidery and a subtle sheen, felt like a reflection of the person I wanted to be—uncomplicated, sincere, and true to myself. I reached out, running my fingers over the soft fabric, feeling a sense of comfort in its simplicity. It was perfect for today, for this moment when I needed to feel grounded.
I chose a pair of small gold earrings and a delicate necklace to complement the saree. My makeup was minimal—just a light touch of powder and a swipe of mascara to bring out my eyes. My hair, still damp, I left loose, allowing it to dry in soft waves down my back. As I dressed, a quiet sense of liberation washed over me. I didn’t need to drape myself in expensive clothes or flashy jewels to feel beautiful. I was enough as I was.
When I finally stepped out of the closet, the saree draped elegantly around me, I felt like myself—simple, graceful, and true. There was no need to impress anyone, especially him. But as much as I tried to keep my expectations at bay, a small part of me—just a sliver—longed for something more. Not as his wife, but as a person, I had hoped he might notice me, perhaps offer a simple compliment. I quickly brushed the thought aside. He had made it clear from the start that our marriage was nothing more than a business arrangement, and I couldn’t afford to let myself hope for anything beyond that.
With that resolve, I made my way to the kitchen. My heart pounded with a mix of excitement and nerves as I navigated the seemingly endless corridors of the palace. This was my first rasoi, the first time I would cook for my new family, and I was determined to make a good impression. But the sheer size of the palace was overwhelming, and I found myself wandering for what felt like hours before I finally stumbled upon the kitchen.
When I entered, I was greeted by the warm, welcoming smile of my mother-in-law. She was already busy, instructing the workers on their tasks, but she turned to me, her eyes crinkling at the corners with kindness.
