Three days before the international royal conclave was set to begin, a black BMW from the Royal Defence Corps pulled into the Mehra estate's private courtyard. The family, still tense in the aftermath of the royal engagement debacle, had not expected visitors-certainly not *him*.
Major Aryan Rathore stepped out of the car in full formal uniform, medals gleaming on his chest, posture impossibly straight.
The Prime Minister, Vikram Mehra, was both surprised and curious when the guard outside informed him who had arrived.
He had questions. But none were asked-not yet.
Because Aryan Rathore didn't waste time.
"I've come," he said, standing before the Prime Minister in the estate's wood-paneled study, "to formally request a marital alliance."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
The Prime Minister blinked. "You mean... my daughter?"
"Yes," Aryan said flatly. "Anaya."
---
No one in the household had seen it coming. Not the father. Not the mother. Not even Anaya herself.
The last time she saw Aryan, he was tied beneath her, drugged and burning. The memory lived sharp and permanent in her mind. She had waited days for retaliation-for a letter, a threat, an untraceable blade in the dark.
But this?
A marriage proposal?
What game was he playing?
Her mother was horrified. Her brother, livid. But the Prime Minister, ever the strategist, remained thoughtful. To marry into the Rathore family-India's most decorated military bloodline-was politically desirable. Perhaps even more desirable than marrying into royalty.
Still, it was *fast*. Suspiciously fast.
Anaya was summoned to the garden where Aryan waited.
The sun was soft, slipping behind the ancient neem trees that framed the marble courtyard. She walked toward him slowly, her silk kurta fluttering in the breeze. Her face was calm. Her mind, far from it.
They hadn't spoken since that night.
He hadn't written.
He hadn't even *looked* for her.
Now here he was, standing beside a koi pond, accepting tea like he hadn't been defiled by her hands.
"You're serious?" she asked after a long silence. "You want to marry me?"
Aryan didn't flinch. "I already spoke to your father. The Emperor has been informed. The royal council is aware."
Her hands curled around the teacup. "Why?"
His gaze locked with hers. "You want a reason?"
"I want the *real* one."
He didn't blink. "Because I don't believe in unfinished business."
Something twisted in her stomach.
"So this is revenge?" she asked coolly.
A beat. A pause.
"I don't believe in revenge either," he said. "But I believe in consequences."
Anaya smiled, slow and deadly. "Then marry me, Major Rathore. I've always liked fire."
---
News of the proposal sent tremors through the capital.
Yuvraj Veer was furious. His best friend, marrying the very woman who had tormented his bride?
Meher was shaken. She tried to speak to Aryan in private, her voice urgent, her eyes soft with concern. "Why her?" she asked. "She's not who you think. She's manipulative. She's cruel."
Aryan had only one answer: "So am I."
And with that, he left.
---
The Emperor gave his blessing. A public show of unity. The second scandal in the royal court within weeks-but one that had the tabloids frothing.
*The Fallen Fiancée. The Silent Soldier. A Wedding of Fire and Ice.*
And beneath it all-Anaya smiled.
Because whatever his game was...
She was ready to play.