The air in Rajasthan was thick—not just with heat, but with memories.
It had been two years since they left this land behind, but the moment the girls stepped out of the Jaipur airport, it all rushed back. The scent of petrichor over dry soil, the weight of ancient history beneath their feet, and the lingering burden of the families they left behind.
A convoy of luxury black cars awaited them, parked just outside the VIP terminal. The local police stood in a formal line. News cameras peeked from behind trees. Dhriti adjusted her scarf over her head with a sigh.
"Yeh royal drama kab khatam hoga?" Zara muttered.
"Maharani aapse koi jhagad sakta hai kya?" Isha teased lightly, bumping her shoulder against Dhriti's.
Dhriti gave a tired smile. "Don't start. I'm not in the mood for bows and curtsies."
One of the guards approached and gave a formal salute.
"Rajkumari Sahiba, Maharaja Rathod ne aapke aane ka intezaar kiya tha. Aapke liye special escort bheja gaya hai."
Isha nudged Meera. "VIP feels, huh?"
Meera's face remained somber, her fingers tightening around her duffel bag. "This isn't a vacation, guys."
And just like that, the mood shifted. They were here for her. And for grief.
The moment they arrived at the Haveli, everything felt surreal.
Security had blocked the roads, black SUVs and political cars lined the entrance. Inside, the grand lawn had been turned into a white oasis—flowers, drapes, incense. Dozens of Rajasthan's most powerful faces were present: ministers, royals, industrialists, and media.
The air was stiff with solemnity and silent judgment.
As the girls stepped down from the cars, the crowd noticed.
All eyes shifted to Dhriti Rathod, the princess of Rajasthan, who stood tall and poised, dressed in a simple ivory saree, her face unreadable. Cameras flashed. People whispered.
Right behind her were Zara, graceful and firm in black, Isha, effortlessly sharp in navy blue, and Meera, wrapped in white, her face pale and eyes hollow.
From across the lawn, Daksh Rathod emerged—sharp, controlled, the very definition of dominance. His black sherwani gave away nothing, but his gaze briefly lingered on the four girls. Especially on Meera.
The funeral rites had already begun. The priest recited mantras, and Meera stood frozen, looking at her father's body, draped in white, surrounded by marigolds.
She collapsed to her knees.
"Papa…" her voice cracked.
Dhriti knelt beside her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. Isha and Zara formed a protective wall around her, shielding her from the flashing cameras and the murmurs.
The moment stilled—grief overtook glamour, and silence replaced scandal.
As Meera wiped her tears, a soft, saccharine voice called out:
"Meera beta…"
She turned.
Anita Singhania—perfectly poised, in an overly elegant white saree, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown, and a smug smile half-hidden behind fake concern.
She walked toward Meera, arms outstretched.
"Come with me, darling. This is too much for you."
For the crowd, it was a scene of a grieving stepmother supporting her daughter. But behind the smiles, the war had already begun.
Anita grabbed Meera's hand and led her into the Haveli. The cameras watched them disappear through the vintage archways.
The moment the door shut behind them, the mask dropped.
"Enough with the tears," Anita snapped, her voice venomous. "You're back, finally. Let's not waste time."
Meera recoiled, wiping her cheeks. "What the hell do you want now?"
Anita tossed a legal envelope onto the antique table. "Your father was a sentimental fool. He left your mother's Haveli in your name… but with a condition."
Meera frowned, flipping through the documents. Her heart stuttered.
"Clause 4: Beneficiary, i.e., Miss Meera Singhania, shall acquire the said property only upon matrimonial union, duly registered under Indian law."
Her hands trembled.
"What kind of bullshit is this?"
Anita smirked, sipping her imported mineral water. "He said it was to protect the property. Said you should only inherit it if you're 'settled'. Can you imagine?"
"This is insane—he knew I never wanted marriage!"
"Well, you better change that mindset, sweetheart. Or I'll be selling that palace to someone who'll make sure you never get it back."
Meera's voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "You can't do that. It's my mother's. It was her last memory."
"Your mother is dead. Her memories can't pay the taxes, darling."
Meera's lips trembled, her eyes furious and wet. "Why would he do this?"
"I didn't say I agreed with him. But the papers are legal. Your choice—find someone and get married. Or say goodbye to your Haveli."
She turned on her heels and walked away, leaving Meera standing amidst broken heirlooms and burning rage.
That night, the girls sat together on the terrace of Meera's childhood room.
She told them everything.
At first, they were silent. Then Zara stood up, pacing furiously. "We knew Anita was a bitch. But this… this is manipulative."
"She wants to trap you here," Isha muttered. "She wants you to give up."
"Or marry someone on her terms," Dhriti added darkly.
Meera sat hunched, exhausted. "I don't even know who I am anymore. A model in Finland. A nobody in India."
"You're Meera Singhania," Dhriti said firmly. "And you're not alone."
The girls linked their hands.
"Five days," Dhriti said, her voice steady. "We're here for five days. And in those five days, we'll help you figure this out."
"We'll face whatever comes. Together," Zara added.
"Through thick and thin," Isha whispered.
Meera looked at them all—her sisters not by blood, but by bond.
Whatever storm was coming… they would face it. Together.
The next morning The sky over Rajasthan was hazy with early morning light, but Meera's world still felt dark. She had barely slept. Her head pounded from the mix of grief, shock, and Anita's words swirling in her mind.
She sat alone in her childhood balcony, hugging her knees. The courtyard below buzzed with activity, servants running about, preparations ongoing for mourning guests. But all she could feel was the throb of helplessness in her chest.
Her phone rang.
Anita.
Meera stared at the screen for a long second before finally picking up.
"Get dressed and come downstairs," Anita's crisp voice commanded. "The buyer is here."
Meera stood up so suddenly the chair toppled behind her.
"What buyer?!"
"For the Haveli. We have a deal. I told you, Meera—this isn't a joke. You want the place? Come stop it."
She hung up.
Meera stormed into the main hall of the Haveli, dressed in a loose cotton kurta, hair tied in a bun, eyes red from crying.
What she saw made her freeze.
Sitting at the ornate dining table was a man. Not a businessman in a suit. Not a young, dashing royal. No.
He was old.
Sixty, at least. Salt and pepper hair. Rings glittering on his thick fingers. He was sipping tea as if he owned the place already.
Anita smiled sweetly and waved her in. "Meera darling, come. Meet Mr. Brij Mohan Agarwal. He's made a very generous offer for the Haveli."
Meera's voice cracked with disbelief. "You're selling my mother's Haveli to him?!"
The man looked her up and down, his eyes lingering too long. "So this is the daughter? Very beautiful. You'll like the proposal, beti."
"I don't want any proposal!" she snapped. "I want you out of my house."
"Meera!" Anita hissed, stepping between them. "Behave. He is a respectable man. You're the one who failed to bring your life together. And your father's clause is clear—you want the Haveli? Get married."
Meera glared at her. "To him?!"
Anita gave a falsely innocent smile. "Why not? He's wealthy. Influential. And ready. The paperwork is done. All that's left is your consent."
Meera laughed in disbelief. Her voice broke. "You want me to marry this old man to get my mother's Haveli back?"
Brij Mohan stood up with a slight chuckle. "You'd live like a queen. And after a few years, you'd have everything. Maybe even a nice flat in London."
Meera stepped back, disgusted. "I'd rather burn the Haveli to the ground than sell my soul to a predator."
"You don't have options," Anita said coolly. "If not him, the Haveli goes today. I'll have the registry done by evening."
Tears welled up in Meera's eyes. "This was her dream. Her family's legacy. You have no right—"
"Your father gave me every right," Anita cut her off, tossing the papers on the table. "And you, little princess, were never strong enough to fight back."
Meera turned and ran out—her voice echoing in the ancient corridors. "I won't let you do this!"