The grand entrance of Rajvanshi Palace lit up like a Diwali night. Dozens of palace guards stood in perfect formation, and the royal musicians began playing the welcoming tune as a sleek black convoy of luxury cars arrived.

The moment had come.

From the front car stepped out Rana Abhay Singh Rathore — dressed in a dark royal bandhgalā, his expression cold, confident, and unreadable. Beside him walked his father, Veer Rathore, a dignified man with commanding presence. Behind them followed Kiara Roy and Kabir Roy, Abhay’s siblings, both curious and visibly excited to meet the Rajvanshis.

Devyani Roy, Abhay’s grandmother, descended last — graceful, her saree reflecting timeless royalty.

Inside the main hall, Maharaja Raghvendra Rajvanshi, Maharani Meenakshi, and Prince Rudraksh stood awaiting their arrival.

Sitara stood slightly behind, wearing a royal maroon saree. Elegant, calm—but her eyes told a different story.

The palace guard announced loudly:

“Rathore khandaan padhār rahe hain!”

Abhay’s eyes met Sitara’s the moment he entered. A flicker of something dangerous passed through his gaze.

Rudraksh stepped forward and folded his hands formally.

“Swagat hai aap sabka, Rathore Haveli se.”

Veer Rathore returned the gesture.

“Rajvanshi parivaar ka yeh samman humesha yaad rahega.”

Everything felt formal, traditional… until Devyani Roy’s sharp gaze landed on Sitara.

“Yahi hai hamari hone waali bahu?” she asked softly, but clearly.

Abhay didn’t blink.

“Haan, yahi hai Sitara Rajvanshi… jo ab Sitara Rathore banne waali hai.”

Sitara stepped forward.

“Sirf naam lene se koi kisi ka kuch nahi ban jaata, Rana Abhay Singh Rathore.”

A hush fell over the hall.

Abhay smirked, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her.

“Tumhare bhai ne mujhe daawat di thi. Tumhare pita ne samjhauta kiya tha. Tumhare ghar ne rishte ka haan kiya tha. Tumhe kya lagta hai… ki tum in sab se upar ho?”

“Main Sitara Rajvanshi hoon,” she said proudly. “Kisi bhi naam se pehle apni marzi rakh sakti hoon.”

Just then, Maharani Meenakshi intervened.

“Baithiye sab log. Aaj rishte ki baat hai… jang ki nahi.”

Everyone took their seats.

But the war had already begun.

In between exchanged glances, veiled taunts, and unspoken truths — one thing was clear.

The next move would not be political.

It would be personal.

The palace was alive with celebration, but far from the crowd, in the marble corridors touched by moonlight, Sitara walked with fire in her chest.

She found Abhay Singh Rathore standing alone in the courtyard, staring at the stars like he owned the night.

She didn’t wait.

“Tumse baat karni hai.”

He turned, and when their eyes met, something shifted in the air.

“Tum hamesha gusse mein kyun hoti ho?” he asked softly. “Main kya itna bura hoon?”

“Tumse zyada khudgarz insaan maine nahi dekha,” she snapped. “Tumhe sirf apna naam, apni power aur apni zid dikhti hai. Tum sochte ho har cheez paison se khareedi jaa sakti hai?”

Abhay took a step closer, his voice lower now.

“Main paison se tumhe khareedne nahi aaya Sitara... tumhe jeetne aaya hoon.”

She blinked, stunned.

He stepped even closer. Their breaths almost met. His voice brushed her skin like velvet.

“Tumhe pata hai, tum jab gussa hoti ho na... to meri duniya aur khubsurat lagti hai.”

She turned her face, trying to hide the flutter in her chest.

“Tumhare jaise insaan se pyaar karne ka soch bhi nahi sakti main,” she whispered.

He leaned in slightly, his breath warm near her ear.

“Toh nafrat karo mujhse... lekin rozo mujhse milne ka khwab kyun dekhti ho, Sitara?”

Her eyes widened. He knew.

Abhay brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering a moment too long.

Her heartbeat raced.

“Tumhare jese log sapne dekhnay layak nahi hote,” she whispered, shaken.

He leaned closer, their faces just inches apart.

“Mujhe fark nahi padta ki tum mujhse pyaar karti ho ya nafrat... lekin ek baat yaad rakhna Sitara—tum meri ho. Chahe khud ke liye nahi... apne parivaar ke liye hi sahi.”

Sitara’s eyes burned.

She pushed him back gently with both hands on his chest.

“Main shadi karne ko tayar hoon, Abhay Singh Rathore...”

She paused, holding back tears.

“Par sirf apne maa-baap ki izzat ke liye. Tumhare liye nahi.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Abhay speechless for the first time.

The silver bells of her anklet echoed in the silence, but her words were louder.

He had won... but not her heart. Not yet.

---