Snow fell lightly over Kuopio, Finland, veiling the streets in a fine white hush. The town was picturesque, as if frozen in time—quaint, quiet, serene. But in one particular modern villa on the edge of town, serenity had just packed her bags and left.
"Yaar Isha, you left your coffee mug on my bed again!" Zahra's voice echoed through the hallway, laced with frustration and fondness in equal parts.
Isha Rajawat, lounging upside down on the sofa in her oversized hoodie, didn't even glance back. "Zahra, tu itni chhoti si baat par bhi lecture shuru kar degi kya?"
"Lecture? I'm a lawyer, not your maid!" Zahra snapped, flinging a cushion at her head.
The cushion missed. Isha laughed. "Toh lawyer banke tu sirf mugs ke liye case ladegi?"
From the open kitchen, Dhrithi Rathod sipped her chai and smiled quietly. She wasn't one to interfere unless things escalated into actual war. But this was home—chaotic, loud, warm. And for girls like them, with blood that ran royal, criminal, and cursed, "home" had never come easy.
Just then, her phone buzzed. A FaceTime call. Meera.
"Finally," Isha muttered, leaping to grab the phone. "Madam Europe se live aa rahi hain."
The screen blinked to life, and there she was—Meera Singhania—clad in a black trench coat, snow clinging to her lashes as she waited outside Berlin Airport.
"Aap log mujhe miss kar rahe ho?" Meera's voice was warm, teasing, the kind that made you feel like you belonged.
"Oh please," Zahra snorted. "We're just hoping you're not bringing your diva tantrums back."
Meera pouted. "Zahra, sweetie, jealousy doesn't look good on you."
"Okay, okay," Dhrithi interrupted, amused. "When's your flight landing in Finland?"
"Three hours. And then, girls, get ready. We're celebrating my Berlin cover shoot tonight."
Isha's eyes gleamed. "Means… clubbing?"
"Obviously!" Meera said, rolling her eyes. "After two years of us being in Finland and not having a single scandal? Shame on us."
The call ended in squeals and plans. Dresses, heels, makeup.
Dhrithi leaned back, suddenly thoughtful. "You know… it's been two years since we left Rajasthan. Since we saw our families…"
Zahra went quiet, the usual mischief vanishing from her eyes. "Some families are better left in the past."
Isha sensed the tension and broke it. "Alright, break the melodrama. Who's taking the Ferrari out?"
"I am," Dhrithi said with a regal flick of her hand. "Maharani ki gaadi, maharani hi chalayegi."
"Maharani aapse koi jhagad sakta hai kya?" Zahra mocked with a grin.
They laughed, unaware that fate had already begun writing their downfall.
The bass reverberated through the floor of CLUB ÉCLAT, one of Finland's most elite underground clubs. The girls had barely stepped out of the Ferrari when a wave of murmurs followed them like a hush before a storm. It wasn't every day that a famous Indian model walked into a high-end Nordic club surrounded by three equally striking women.
Meera swayed in her red satin slit gown like she was born for the spotlight. The slit ran daringly high up her leg, paired with six-inch heels that accentuated her already tall figure. Her hair fell in effortless curls over her bare shoulders, and her smile—though tired—still dazzled.
Behind her, Isha Rajawat walked like she owned the ground beneath her. Her short black dress was bold, with silver chains and a deep neckline that did not beg for attention—it demanded it. Zara, in contrast, wore a long emerald green silk number that clung to her like it was sculpted onto her curves. Minimal makeup, piercing eyes. Dangerously quiet.
And then there was Dhriti Rathod—regal as ever. Her wine-colored gown had a thigh-high slit, a plunging back, and subtle gold embroidery. Her kohl-lined eyes scanned the club, calm and calculating.
"Yahan bhi log ghoor rahe hain… kya hai na, maharani se aankhein milana mushkil hota hai," Isha muttered under her breath with a smirk.
Dhriti arched a brow, playing along. "Maharani hoon main… mujhse jhagadne ki himmat toh kisi mein hai nahi."
They laughed, the sound lost in the booming music, but their bond glimmered like fire in the frost. This was their moment—before life in India would pull them back into the chaos they'd so deliberately escaped.
Meera had just returned from Berlin that evening, and this celebration was their way of forgetting.
Their table was a private VIP lounge with velvet booths and bottle service already waiting—courtesy of the owner who was an old admirer of Meera. They clinked their glasses, the champagne bubbling like the excitement in their veins.
"To surviving life in Rajasthan," Meera toasted.
"To surviving each other," Zara said dryly.
"To not murdering our families," Isha added, raising her glass.
Dhriti smirked. "Aur maine toh bas itna kiya hai ke main zinda hoon."
Laughter broke out again. But under the surface, the tension was palpable. Zara hadn't even looked in Dhriti's direction when Daksh's name had come up earlier. And everyone had noticed.
The night moved fast. Meera danced with abandon, the rhythm guiding her like waves in a storm. The others sat, sipping and watching, until Dhriti finally pulled Isha onto the dance floor.
"I swear, if you don't dance, main tujhe yahin gira ke nachwa dungi," Dhriti said, dragging her by the wrist.
Zara leaned back, eyes trained on the crowd.
It was almost midnight when a tall Finnish man—broad shoulders, buzzcut, reeking of vodka—stepped toward Meera on the dance floor. His eyes were glazed, and the way he looked at her was anything but polite.
"Indian supermodel, huh?" he slurred, reaching out and running a finger down her arm.
Meera froze. "Excuse me?" she said, trying to step back.
But he grabbed her wrist.
Before she could react, a blur of movement slammed into him from the side. Isha.
Her heel connected with his shin and he cried out, stumbling. "Don't you touch her," she spat, her voice like ice.
The man grinned. "Oh? You wanna play rough, babe?"
And that's when Dhriti stepped in.
She said nothing. Her palm cracked across his face so hard the entire crowd turned.
"Maafi maango," she said, her voice dangerously soft.
"What—" he began, but didn't get to finish. Dhriti kneed him in the gut and Isha shoved him back into a wall. The bouncers rushed in. Within seconds, he was gone.
"Yeh India nahi hai," Dhriti muttered, turning back to Meera. "Par hum ab bhi Raniyaan hi hain."
Meera blinked away tears—not from fear, but from gratitude. The adrenaline. The fierceness.
The girls stood in a circle, arms linked loosely.
"I thought I could handle everything alone," Meera whispered.
"You don't have to anymore," Zara finally said. "We're not just some girls from Rajasthan. We're survivors."
Silence fell. Not the awkward kind—just the kind that comes when emotions run too deep for words.
Outside, snow had begun to fall again, gently kissing the windows of the club.
And far away, across the ocean, a phone buzzed in Rajasthan.
A man named Abhimanyu Rajput stared at the death certificate on his desk.
And then at a picture of Meera Singhania.
"They're coming back," he said to himself.
"Time to finish what their father started."
The laughter in the apartment hadn't yet faded when Meera's phone buzzed again. The girls were barefoot, lounging in their silk robes and devouring leftover fries like queens recovering from war. Dhriti was playfully teasing Isha about her "kickboxing pose" in the club while Zara lay sprawled over the couch, eyes closed, muttering, "Remind me to never wear stilettos again."
The phone buzzed again.
Caller ID: Anita Singhania.
The blood drained from Meera's face.
"Guys… it's her." Her voice was a whisper, but everyone froze.
Zara sat up instantly. "Your stepmother?"
Meera nodded, throat dry. "We haven't spoken in almost two years."
"Put it on speaker," Isha said sharply.
Meera answered, but her hand trembled.
"So you're alive." Anita's voice was as honeyed and venomous as ever. "How nice."
Meera swallowed. "Why are you calling?"
A pause. A cruel, deliberate silence.
"Your father is dead."
Silence dropped like a bomb.
Meera's breath hitched. "What… what did you say?"
"Had a heart attack this morning. I thought I'd be kind and let you know. You don't need to come back—unless you're here for the inheritance drama, of course."
"Stop it." Meera's voice cracked. "Stop talking like that. You're lying."
"I wish," Anita said, mocking sorrow. "But truth is a bitch, darling. And so am I. Anyway, everything's been transferred to me—per your dear papa's last will."
"But… what about the Haveli? My mom's palace?"
"Oh, that," Anita said with a chuckle. "There's a little clause. You'll only inherit that one if you marry someone. What a tragic little loophole."
And with that, she hung up.
The phone slipped from Meera's hand.
"Meera?" Dhriti was already kneeling in front of her. "What happened?"
Meera's lips quivered. "He's… gone. Papa's gone."
The room went utterly still.
Isha moved first, wrapping her arms around Meera as her body shook with sobs. Zara sat silently, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles went white.
"She didn't even care," Meera whispered. "She said it like… like she was telling me the weather."
"She's a witch," Isha spat. "What else did she say?"
Meera looked up, eyes rimmed with tears. "She said the Haveli… mama's palace… it'll only be mine if I marry. Can you believe that?"
Zara scoffed. "Classic manipulation."
Meera tried to steady her breath. "I don't even care about property. I just wanted to see him. One last time."
"You're going," Dhriti said firmly.
"What?"
"We're all going to Rajasthan with you."
"But—"
"No buts," Isha cut her off. "You need us."
"We'll go for five days," Zara added. "Then come back to our chaos."
"Paanch din," Dhriti repeated. "Bas. We stand together. No matter what."
Meera looked around at them—these women who knew every shade of her past, who shared the same storm-filled skies. She nodded slowly.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Dhriti pulled her into a hug. "To hell with Rajasthan. If we have to burn it down, we'll do it together."
"Jee haan, maharani," Zara said, cracking a smile. "Aap se jhagad bhi kaun sakta hai?"
They all laughed softly—because that's what sisters do in the middle of heartbreak: they hold each other and crack jokes and promise the world won't end.