The car wound its way through familiar lanes, past bougainvillea-covered gates and street vendors selling mangoes under umbrellas. Mumbai hadn't changed. The honking was still too loud, the air still thick with spice and sea breeze — and yet, Mayuri felt like a different woman moving through it all.

She lowered the window slightly. The air was warm, slightly dusty, and filled with memories. It didn't smell like betrayal. It smelled like home.

As the Pradhan bungalow came into view, her heart clenched. Three white pillars stood tall at the entrance, holding up the same ivy-covered arch she used to run under as a child. The swing on the verandah swayed in the breeze, untouched since her last visit a year ago.

She stepped out of the car slowly, like she was stepping out of her old life.

"Mayu!" came a familiar, excited voice.

Her mother, Gayathri Pradhan dressed in a light pink cotton saree, came rushing out of the doorway. Before Mayuri could say a word, she was engulfed in a hug so full of warmth it nearly cracked the shell she'd built around herself.

"My baby's back," her mother whispered. "You've lost weight. And colour. What's wrong?"

Mayuri smiled faintly. "Jet lag, Maa Sa. That's all."

It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth either.

Her father Raman Pradhan emerged next, dignified in his crisp white kurta and thick-rimmed glasses. Business tycoon, public speaker, and behind closed doors — the softest man Mayuri had ever known.

"Welcome home, Mayuri," he said gently, placing a protective hand on her head. "We missed you."

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her emotions in check. "I missed you too, Appa."

⸻

Later that afternoon.

The house was exactly as she remembered. Old teakwood furniture. That one portrait of her great-grandfather that always stared too seriously. And her room — untouched, preserved in soft pastels and shelves of books.

Mayuri sat by the window, sipping tulsi chai, wearing a cotton kurta that still smelled like rosewater and childhood.

Amma entered with a steel plate of guava slices and a knowing look.

"You're not here for a break," she said softly.

Mayuri looked up, startled. "What makes you say that?"

"You're my daughter," Amma smiled. "I carried your heartbeat inside mine. Something's hurting you. But it's okay. You don't have to say anything yet."

Mayuri's eyes filled unexpectedly. "Maa ..." she whispered.

"No tears," Amma said firmly. "You are back home. And back home, you smile first — then cry later if you must."

So Mayuri smiled.

Small, trembling. But real.

⸻

The Same Evening

Her father called her to the study. The evening sky outside had turned amber, and a flock of birds flew in formation like brushstrokes across the clouds.

"I received a letter, Mayu," her father began.

Mayuri looked up, brows narrowing. "From whom?"

"The Royal House of Udaipur."

She blinked. "Udaipur?"

He slid the letter across the desk — parchment paper, gold seal, hand-written calligraphy.

To the Honorable Pradhan Family,

It would be our esteemed privilege to propose an alliance between the House of Rathore and your daughter, Ms. Mayuri Pradhan. His Highness Maharaj Veer Singh Rathore is prepared to meet and honor the customs of both our families. We await your reply at your earliest convenience.

With respect,

Rajmata Devika Rathore

Royal House of Udaipur

She read the letter twice.

Then again.

"A royal... proposal?" she asked incredulously. "I don't understand."

Her father folded his hands calmly. "Your grandfather once helped the Rathores during a political crisis decades ago. There's old respect between our families. They're looking for someone strong, graceful, and discreet. Rajmata saw a speech of yours online — the one you gave at the design expo last year in Paris. She believes you would make an ideal Maharani."

Mayuri laughed once, dryly. "Maharani? Me? You do realize I just walked out of a failed engagement?"

"That's why they chose you," Amma said softly, entering the room. "Because they don't want perfection. They want truth. Strength."

"But... he doesn't know me," Mayuri whispered.

Her father nodded. "No. But he's agreed to meet you in person before anything is decided. You will go to Udaipur, stay as a guest. If your heart says no, we refuse. But... if something tells you to stay—"

"I won't marry for duty," Mayuri interrupted.

Amma stepped closer and placed a hand over her daughter's.

"No, dear. You'll marry when it stops hurting. And if Veer Singh Rathore is the one who helps you heal — then perhaps it's not duty. Perhaps it's destiny."

⸻

That night, as Mayuri stood under the stars on her balcony, the air buzzing with cricket-song and the fragrance of raat ki rani, she found herself asking a quiet question to the universe:

"Is it possible to find love... after losing everything?"

And for the first time in days, her heart didn't feel heavy.

It felt curious.

The moonlight spilled across her bedroom floor like spilled milk, pale and delicate. Outside, the wind rustled the neem tree beside her window. Mumbai slept, but Mayuri did not.

She sat on her bed, the royal proposal letter in her hands again.

The parchment was beautiful — hand-crafted, official, precise. A signature of legacy and expectation.

Her fingers traced the crest of the Rathore family. A lion and a sword, crowned by a lotus. Regal. Dignified. Intimidating.

She folded the letter carefully and placed it on her nightstand.

But her mind... her mind refused to rest.

⸻

She closed her eyes — and like a cruel film reel, the memory played again.

The apartment in London.

Aidan's shirt discarded on the floor.

That girl's laughter. The gasp when they saw her.

Her breath hitched.

She hadn't cried then. She hadn't screamed. But now, sitting alone in the quiet of her childhood room, the tears slipped down her cheeks without permission.

Her shoulders trembled, just once.

It wasn't the betrayal that hurt the most.

It was the lie she told herself:

That she had been enough.

That maybe, if she had been more — more spontaneous, more open, more... something — he wouldn't have strayed.

But no. She stopped herself right there.

She wiped her cheeks, gently. Like Amma used to when she was little and cried after falling from her bicycle.

"No, Mayuri," she whispered to the silence. "Don't carry someone else's sin like it's your fault."

She looked at herself in the mirror.

The woman staring back wasn't broken.

She was bruised, yes. Bent, maybe.

But she was standing.

⸻

She rose to her feet and opened her cupboard. Slowly, reverently, she reached for a forgotten box wrapped in deep maroon fabric. Inside was an old pair of earrings — ancestral jhumkas with emerald drops. Her grandmother's. A symbol of strength passed through generations of Pradhan women.

She clipped them on.

They felt heavy. But grounding.

Mayuri returned to her bedside, picked up the letter once more — this time, without shaking — and whispered to the stars above:

"I don't know if this will heal me.

But I refuse to live afraid."

⸻

The next morning.

At breakfast, Amma looked at her with questioning eyes.

Mayuri took a deep breath, placed her spoon down, and said with a small, firm voice:

"Tell Rajmata Devika Rathore... I accept the invitation."

Her father blinked. Amma's lips parted in surprise — not at her words, but at the composure in them.

"Are you sure?" her father asked.

"No," Mayuri replied honestly. "But I'm ready."

⸻

And just like that, a new chapter began.

Not in a fairy tale.

Not in a dream.

But in the real world — where healing was slow, and love... was no longer something she feared.

It was something she would learn to trust again.