If someone had told Avantika a few months ago that she'd be engaged to a literal prince before her twentieth birthday, she'd have thrown popcorn in their face and gone back to binging K-dramas on her bed in Delhi.

But there she stood.

Dressed in a breathtaking lavender lehenga embroidered with delicate silver vines that shimmered under the golden chandeliers of the palace ballroom. The skirt swayed with every hesitant step she took, as though it was unsure too—unsure how a girl with dinosaur pajamas and exam stress had somehow landed herself in the middle of royal reality.

The bridal suite was enormous—mirrors taller than the ego of some of her ex-classmates, antique chests overflowing with jewellery, perfumed jasmine hanging in garlands, and a soft hum of flutes and sitar playing in the distance. She could see the palace lawns from her window, already filled with guests—aristocrats, politicians, a few distant royals, and curious onlookers all murmuring in fascination about the "Delhi girl" who'd managed to snag the Rajput heartthrob.

Avantika adjusted her choli in the mirror and stared at her reflection. Her makeup was minimal but glowing, her lips painted in a soft mauve, her eyes kohl-lined but not dramatic. She didn't need drama.

She was the drama tonight.

"You look... unreal," Meher whispered from behind her, looking like a vision herself in rose-gold. "Like one of those Mahabharata princesses who descended from the heavens."

Avantika gave her a crooked smile. "One who accidentally tripped into the heavens while wearing sneakers and holding a chai."

They both laughed.

The laughter calmed the storm in Avantika's chest.

Because it was there—the storm. Of nerves. Of confusion. Of that lingering, gnawing feeling that this was all moving too fast.

But then she thought of him.

Of the way Abhimanyu looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching. Of how he'd oil her hair, feed her momos, fight the world if it meant she wouldn't cry. Of the way he tickled her waist just to make her laugh.

And most of all—of the way he never forced this decision on her.

The marriage wasn't his demand. It was her reluctant surrender to a world that wouldn't leave them in peace otherwise.

"Are you ready?" her mother asked, walking in with wide eyes and trembling fingers, still slightly stunned by the opulence around her.

Avantika turned to her. "Are you?"

Her mother blinked, smiled nervously, and said, "Honestly? I'm still getting over the fact that I just shared chai with the Maharani of Udaipur. She asked me about my saree. Said it was elegant."

Avantika chuckled.

Her father peeked in too, looking entirely too smug in his designer sherwani.

"Papa," she warned, "stop looking like you won the lottery."

"Beta," he said sincerely, walking over to kiss her forehead. "I did."

She rolled her eyes. "You don't even know him yet."

"Don't need to. Title says enough."

There it was again.

The truth.

They didn't care what Abhimanyu did for fun, what his laugh sounded like, or how he wiped her tears when no one else saw. They cared that he was a prince. That she'd be a princess.

She smiled politely at them, but her stomach twisted.

As the hour approached, she walked slowly out of the bridal suite, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor, the weight of the dupatta resting on her head like a crown she wasn't sure she'd earned.

The grand doors opened and she stepped into the main hall.

And there he was.

Abhimanyu Rajput.

Dressed in a cream and lavender sherwani with intricate embroidery and a matching stole draped across one shoulder. A royal turban sat lightly on his head, and his smile—god, that smile—made everything else vanish.

She forgot about the guests.

The flashing cameras. The murmuring ministers. The fussy aunts whispering about her waistline.

He was all she saw.

He stepped forward as she came down the steps, his hand extended.

She took it.

His fingers closed around hers like it was the most natural thing in the world, and they walked together, toward the sacred mandap that had been set up in the centre of the ballroom. Lavender and white flowers were strung across golden arches, and soft fairy lights blinked like stars. Panditji sat in the middle, chanting quietly.

They sat down, side by side.

He leaned in, whispering just under his breath, "Are you okay?"

She nodded.

"You look... dangerous."

She narrowed her eyes. "Dangerous?"

"Like the kind of princess who'd challenge me to sword-fight on our suhaag raat."

She smothered a laugh.

"Would you win?" she whispered back.

"Against you?" he said. "Never."

The rituals began. Rings were exchanged, the crowd clapped politely, cameras flashed.

Somewhere in the back, Meher and Abhinav stood watching, soft smiles on their faces. Abhinav whispered something about "finally," and Meher just rolled her eyes, hiding a suspicious sniffle.

When it was over, and they stood together for the royal portrait, she turned to him.

"I still feel like I'm dreaming."

He wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her slightly closer.

"Then let's make it a beautiful dream. One you never want to wake up from."

"Even if it includes your horrible singing?"

"Especially that."

She giggled.

He took her hand and kissed the back of it, lips lingering just a second longer than necessary.

The guests began dispersing to the banquet area, where royal chefs had laid out a meal even the Mughal emperors would've envied.

But before they followed, Abhimanyu tugged her gently into a quiet corridor.

"What are we doing?" she asked, confused.

"Stealing a moment."

He pushed open a door to the palace's old library. It smelled of sandalwood and parchment, and the golden light made the books glow.

He led her in, closed the door behind them.

And kissed her.

This time, there were no tickles. No giggles. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

This kiss wasn't the beginning.

It was the promise.